n 


THE  DAY  OF  FAITH 


o 


I 


OF  CALIF,  LIBRARY;  LOS 


THE 

DAY  OF  FAITH 

BY  ARTHUR  SOMERS  ROCHE 


AUTHOR  OF 

"The  Eyes  of  the  Blind,"  "Find  the  Woman," 
"Ransom"  "Uneasy  Street,"  etc. 


A.  L.  BURT  COMPANY 

Publishers  New  York 

Published  by  arrangement  with  Little,   Brown  and  Company 
Printed  in  U.  S.  A. 


Copyright,  1921, 

BY    ARTHUR    SOMERS    RoCHE. 

All  rights  reserved 
Published  October,  1921 


PRINTED  IN  THE  UNITED  STATES  OP  AMERICA 


TO   THE   MEMORY   OF   MY  FATHER 

JAMES    JEFFREY   ROCHE 


THE  DAY  OF  FAITH 


CHAPTER  I 

THE  prisoner  stared  at  his  t  captors.  They  were  five, 
and  he  was  one. 

"  What  you  goin*  to  do  with  me,  gents  ?  "  he  asked.  The 
whine  of  the  professional  crook,  common  to  mendicants 
also,  was  in  his  voice.  Divested  of  his  mask,  which  he 
had  worn  upon  his  entrance,  he  was  the  stubbly-bearded, 
beady-eyed,  loose-lipped  kind  of  man  who  is  terrifying  to 
women,  but  cringes  before  men. 

The  youngest  man,  the  one  who  from  the  brightly 
lighted  dining  room  had  heard  the  sound  upon  the  porch 
outside,  and  had  tiptoed  around  the  house  and  engaged 
the  intruder,  laughed. 

"  Do  with  you  ?  Wh}r,  we're  going  to  give  you  a  cold 
supper,  then  a  nice  warm  bed,  and  in  the  morning  we're 
going  to  raise  a  purse  for  you,  and  give  you  a  good  job, 
with  easy  hours  and  a  l%ge  salary,  and  elect  you  to  the 
country  club  —  why,"  aijd.  his  hard  young  voice,  still  a 
trifle  breathless  from  the  Struggle  outside,  took  or*  a  tone 
of  mock  surprise,  "  what  did  you  think  we  were  going  to 
do  with  you  ?  " 

The  burglar  shuffled  his  feet.  His  shrewd  eyes  shifted 
from  face  to  face.  Elderly  men,  all  of  them,  save  for  the 
man  who  had  spoken,  he  seemed  to  read  mercy  in  the  face 
of  none. 


4  THE  DAY  OF  FAITH 

"  Well,"  he  said  impudently,  "  it  looks  like  a  fair  enough 
program.  How  soon  did  you  say  that  I  ate?  " 

After  all,  he  had  his  code.  As  long  as  whining  might 
serve,  he  would  whine  with  the  best  of  them.  But  when 
all  hope  was  lost,  it  was  his  thief's  duty  to  show  bravado. 
The  youngest  man  turned  to  the  oldest  of  the  group, 
i  "  Well,  Mr.  Hendricks,  it  isn't  often  that  theory  and 
practice  shake  hands  with  each  other.  What  do  you 
think  now?  " 

There  was  triumph  in  his  voice.  Also,  there  was  that 
tinge  of  contempt  which  youth  always  feels  for  age, 
especially  when  youth  is  practical  and  age  seems 
visionary. 

Hendricks  shrugged  his  shoulders.  They  were  bowed 
shoulders,  and  the  face  above  them  was  wrinkled  as  though 
with  many  troubles.  But  the  wide  mouth  was  generous ; 
the  bony  nose  above  it  told  of  impulsiveness  as  well  as 
strength,  and  the  deep-set,  tired-seeming  eyes  were  as  soft 
as  those  of  a  sweet-natured  child. 

"  Why,  I  don't  think,  Jackson,  that  I've  had  any  reason 
to  change  my  mind." 

':'  "  No?  "  Jackson's  voice  was  jeering.  "  You  invite  us 
here  to-night  to  discuss  prison-reform  plans.  You  ask 
me,  as  district  attorney  of  Leland  County,  to  advocate 
measures  of  leniency  toward  criminals.  And  in  the  middle 
of  our  talk,  I  hear  a  burglar  outside,  capture  him,  drag 
him  in  here,  and  you  tell  me  that  you  haven't  changed 
your  mind." 

"  I  do,"  smiled  Hendricks.  "  The  fact  that  some  one 
tried  to  rob  me  doesn't  alter  the  fact  that  criminals  are 
badly  treated,  does  it?  Sam,  you  don't  argue  with  juries 
this  way,  do  you?  " 

Jackson  colored ;  he  blustered  slightly.  "  I'll  bet  you, 
Mr.  Hendricks,  that  when  we  come  to  try  this  man,  we'll 
find  out  that  he's  done  time  before,  that  he's  a  professional 


THE  DAY  OF  FAITH  5 

crook.    And  yet  you'd  advocate  gentleness  toward  him !  " 

"  And  toward  ourselves,"  said  Hendricks.  He  looked 
pityingly  at  their  captive.  "  Treat  him  fairly,  justly, 
generously,"  he  said,  his  voice  slightly  rising,  "  and  he'll 
be  a  different  man." 

"  You  bet  I  will,"  exclaimed  the  burglar.  His  impu- 
dence fell  away  from  him  like  a  discarded  garment.  Hope 
was  not  lost,  and  he  would  still  whine  with  the  best  of 
them.  He  didn't  know  what  it  was  all  about;  he  only 
knew  that  he  had  misread  the  face  of  the  man  they  called 
Hendricks.  Mercy  was  there !  "  Why,"  he  said,  "  I  ain't 
never  had  no  chance  at  all." 

Young  Jackson  grinned.  "  You  mean  that  the  cruel, 
brutal  police  interrupt  you  when  you're  thieving.  That 
it?" 

The  small  eyes  of  the  burglar  flashed  hatred  for  a 
moment.  But  he  dropped  them  quickly ;  his  attitude  was 
all  humility. 

Another  man  spoke ;  there  was  a  hint  .of  mirth  in  his 
voice. 

"  Better  ring  for  the  police,  Jackson,"  he  said.  He 
looked  at  Hendricks.  "  It  isn't  evidence  against  your 
arguments,  Hendricks,  old  man,"  he  said  affectionately. 
"  Only  —  theories  run  up  against  facts,  and  —  why,  even 
you,  old  man,  wouldn't  argue  that  there's  any  possibility 
of  reforming  a  rat  like  this.  Jail's  the  only  place  for 
him." 

The  young  district  attorney,  grinning  broadly,  started 
for  the  door.  But  Hendricks  called  him  back. 

"  Just  a  minute,  Jackson."  He  faced  the  last  speaker. 
"  I  don't  think,  Kelly,  that  you  have  quite  followed  me. 
I  don't  advocate  reforming  criminals  any  more  than  I 
advocate  reforming  ourselves,  who  help  criminals  to  re- 
main what  they  are." 

Kelly's  red  face  creased  in  innumerable  merry  wrinkles. 


6  THE  DAY  OF  FAITH 

"  I  suppose,  Hendricks,"  he  said,  "  that  Jackson,  or 
Rosenberg,  or  Capelli,  or  you,  or  myself,  had  something 
to  do  with  this  yegg's  career?  Eh?  That  what  you're 
driving  at?  I  suppose  that  some  one  of  us,  somehow  or 
other,  drove  him  to  his  life  of  crime,  as  the  newspapers 
would  term  it?  Eh?  That  what  you  mean?  " 

Hendricks  shook  his  head.  "  I  won't  say  that  any  of 
us  are  directly  responsible  for  his  past.  But  his  future  — 
that's  something  different.  If  we  send  him  to  prison  now, 
we  are  responsible." 

"And  if  we  don't  send  him?  What  then?  "  demanded 
'Jackson  hotly.  "  We  let  him  go  and  continue  his  sweet 
career  —  and  I  don't  suppose  that  we'd  be  responsible  for 
the  next  crime  he  tried  —  and  got  away  with?  You  really 
mean  that  ?  " 

"  I  mean  this,"  said  Hendricks.  "  I  mean  that  if  we 
saw  this  man  as  a  perfect  human  being  —  if  all  of  us  did 
• — •  he  would  inevitably  see  us  as  perfect  —  crime  would 
be  abolished  and " 

"  The  millennium  would  be  here,"  interrupted  Capelli. 
His  dark,  Italian  face  expressed  the  hugest  contempt.  He 
turned  to  Rosenberg.  The  latter's  swarthy  face  was  a 
study  in  bewilderment.  "  What  do  you  think,  Rosie?  " 
demanded  Capelli. 

"  Think?  "  Rosenberg's  deep  voice  was  almost  a  bellow. 
"  Think  ?  I  think  that  I  am  a  busy  man ;  that  we  are  all 
busy  men.  Mr.  Hendricks  invites  us  here,  three  of  the 
leading  business  men  of  Leland,  to  talk  a  lot  of  damn' 
nonsense  about  crooks.  Then  he  wants  us  to  let  a  burglar 
go  free.  Then  he  tells  us  that  we  should  look  upon  his 
burglar  as  a  perfect  human  being!  Think?  I  think  that 
he's  crazy,  and  that  we  are  just  as  crazy  if  we  listen  to 
Jiim.  That's  what  I  think." 

Hendricks  laughed.  "  Fair  enough,  Rosie !  Just  for 
fthat,  the  next  time  you  want  the  Leland  National  Bank 


THE  DAY  OF  FAITH  71 

to  extend  a  note  for  you,  do  you  know  what  Pm  going 
to  do?" 

"  Sure  I  do,"  replied  the  Jew,  smiling.  "  You  will  ex- 
tend the  note.  Any  time  you  let  my  opinions  interfere 
with  your  fairness,  you  will  be  a  different  man,  Bland 
Hendricks."  He  waved  a  pudgy  hand  at  Jackson.  "  Tele- 
phone for  the  police,"  he  said. 

"  Wait  a  bit,  Jackson,"  said  the  banker.  "  After  all 
—  this  is  my  house.  This  man  had  not  entered  it.  He 
was  on  the  veranda  outside  when  we  heard  him.  He's  com- 
mitted no  crime." 

"  He  wore  a  mask  —  his  intent  was  clear.  I  think," 
said  Jackson,  "  that  I  can  make  a  jury  believe  that  he 
didn't  come  here  to  pay  a  social  call." 

"  What  you  are  able  to  make  juries  believe  has  no 
bearing  on  the  situation,"  said  Hendricks.  And  into  his 
voice,  usually  drawling  and  mild,  had  come  that  hint  of 
stubbornness  which  his  firm  chin  indicated.  "  A  complaint 
must  be  made.  I  refuse  to  make  one." 

"  I'll  make  it,"  snapped  Jackson.  His  own  aggressive! 
chin  was  thrust  forward. 

"  Trespass  is  an  offense  of  little  gravity,  I  take  it," 
said  Hendricks.  "  If  the  chief  sufferer  by  such  an  offense 
refuses  to  press  the  charge,  I  think  that  the  net  result 
would  be  a  waste  of  your  time,  Jackson,  my  boy." 

The  younger  man,  his  face  red  and  belligerent,  stared 
at  the  older.  "  You  want  me  to  let  him  go,  then?  " 

"  I  insist  upon  it,"  said  Hendricks  gravely. 

The  others  remained  silent.  After  all,  there  was  truth! 
in  what  Hendricks  said.  The  man  had  not  committed 
burglary.  He  had  neither  "  broken  "  nor  "  entered." 
That  his  intention  was  only  too  obvious  didn't  matter.  He 
could  not  be  charged  with  burglary,  and  even  a  trespass 
case  would  break  down  if  Hendricks  refused  to  appear 
against  him. 


8  THE  DAY  OF  FAITH 

"  But  be  reasonable,  Mr.  Hendricks,"  pleaded  Jackson. 
"  The  man  is  dangerous." 

Hendricks  shook  his  head.  "  Men  are  dangerous  only 
because  we  choose  to  believe  so."  He  turned  to  the  cap- 
tive. "  You  may  go,"  he  said. 

For  a  moment,  dazed,  incredulous,  the  burglar  stared. 
Then  he  slowly  backed  toward  the  door,  eyeing  young 
Jackson  fearfully.  But  the  young  district  attorney,  with 
a  disdainful  shrug,  turned  his  back.  The  burglar  gained 
the  door.  He  drew  a  long  breath,  wheeled  and  shot 
through  it.  Three  minutes  later,  almost  a  quarter  of  a 
mile  away,  he  stopped  for  breath.  There  had  been  no 
pursuit ;  it  hadn't  been  a  trick,  a  little  game  which  his 
erstwhile  captors  had  played  for  their  own  amusement. 
He  was  free !  And  "  Montreal  Sammy  "  began  to  take 
more  than  a  passing  interest  in  his  surroundings. 

For  one  failure  did  not  mean  that  Montreal  Sammy 
would  not  try  again.  He  must  try  again.  He  had  not 
one  single  cent  to  his  name.  He  had  left  Chicago  upon  a 
freight  train  that  lost  its  charm  when  a  brakeman  dis- 
covered him.  Not  choice,  but  stern  necessity,  had  made 
Montreal  Sammy  detrain  at  Leland.  The  yeggman  had  a 
contempt  for  what  he  denominated  as  hick  villages.  They 
afforded  him  little  or  no  play  for  that  imaginative  quality 
so  essential  to  success  in  his  profession.  It  took  a  certain 
amount  of  nerve  to  invade  the  precincts  of  a  home  or  office 
with  felonious  intent.  And  imagination,  of  a  sort,  was 
needful  wherewith  to  create  the  nerve.  One  had  to  be 
able  to  visualize  cash,  jewels,  articles  of  rarity  and  corre- 
sponding value,  lying  around  within  easy  grasp.  One 
could  hardly  imagine  them  in  the  buildings  of  a  little 
town  like  Leland. 

Furthermore,  the  opportunities  for  a  get-away  were  not 
so  many  in  hick  villages.  Strangers  were  more  liable  to 
attract  the  intrusive  notice  of  the  inhabitants.  All  in  all, 


THE  DAY  OF  FAITH  9 

a  place  like  Leland  aroused  the  genuine  distaste  of  Mon- 
treal Sammy.  Artists,  writers,  musicians,  —  these  are 
not  the  only  ones  who  find  that  the  big  city  affords  them 
the  greatest  opportunity. 

But  bad  luck,  in  the  shape  of  a  uniformed  policeman, 
had  discovered  Sammy,  at  the  moment  slightly  careless, 
at  work  in  Chicago.  His  hasty  flight  had  necessitated  the 
loss  of  the  tools  of  his  trade.  Only  his  mask,  of  all  that 
valuable  burglar's  kit,  remained  to  him.  He  had  felt, 
upon  being  kicked  off  the  freight  train  at  Leland,  that 
perhaps  he  might  have  done  better  by  remaining  in  the 
city  on  Lake  Michigan.  But  New  York,  after  all,  despite 
his  "  monicker  "  —  bestowed  upon  him  by  admiring  friends 
because  of  a  trick  that  he  had  pulled  in  the  Canadian 
metropolis  —  was  his  home.  To  remain  in  Chicago,  broke, 
without  even  the  tools  of  his  profession,  meant  disaster. 
In  New  York  there  were  friends. 

And,  invading  the  first  prosperous-looking  home  that 
he  had  seen,  he  had  been  caught,  like  any  raw  amateur. 
He  hadn't  even  invaded  it !  He'd  been  pounced  upon  as  he 
crouched  upon  the  veranda,  dragged  into  the  house.  The 
humiliation  angered  him. 

Now  that  he  had  been  permitted  to  depart,  like  a 
schoolboy  caught  stealing  apples,  fear  began  to  leave  him, 
and  anger  took  its  place.  Also,  contemptuous  wonder- 
ment crept  into  his  mind.  What  sort  of  a  boob  was  this 
guy  that  they  called  Hendricks?  Flooey  in  the  dome. 
Nothing  less.  Still  he,  Montreal  Sammy,  should  worry 
about  the  banker's  mental  health.  Let  his  friends  and 
family  and  business  associates  attend  to  that.  Hendricks 
saw  him  as  perfect,  eh?  Well,  he  would  return  the  com- 
pliment ;  he  saw  Hendricks  as  a  perfect  nut.  Fair  enough. 
He  chuckled  at  his  own  wit. 

But  the  chuckle  lasted  only  a  moment.  This  young  guy, 
Jackson,  was  district  attorney,  according  to  the  con- 


10  THE  DAY  OF  FAITH 

versation  that  Montreal  Sammy  had  heard.  That  meant, 
even  if  Jackson  didn't  prosecute  Montreal  Sammy  for 
burglary,  that  the  police  of  this  town  would  be  instructed 
to  arrest  for  vagrancy  any  suspicious-looking  person. 

He  must  get  out  of  town !  And  riding  the  rods  of 
freight  trains  had  lost  its  savor.  He  must  buy  a  ticket 
and  board  a  passenger  train.  And  tickets  cost  money. 
So  did  food,  for  that  matter,  and  Montreal  Sammy,  who 
had  not  eaten  for  twenty-four  hours  or  more,  was 
famished. 

Of  course,  it  was  risky,  but,  —  needs  must.  Keeping 
as  much  in  the  shadows  as  he  could  —  not  very  hard  on 
the  tree-lined  streets  of  Leland  —  the  yeggman  looked 
hard  for  a  profitable  field  for  his  endeavors.  There  wasn't 
much  choice.  It  was  a  small  town,  and  it  had  not  yet 
reached  that  stage  of  commercial  and  social  development 
which  declares  itself  by  palatial  homes.  These  houses 
which  he  was  passing  now  were  mostly  frame  houses ;  but 
some  of  them  were  large,  with  well-kept  lawns  and  trimmed 
hedges.  He  paused  before  one. 

Insinuating  himself  through  a  gap  in  the  hedge,  he 
surveyed  the  house  carefully.  He  noted  how  neat  was  the 
drive ;  the  garage  was  big  enough  for  at  least  three  cars ; 
and  there  were  servants'  quarters  overhead.  Nothing 
grand,  he  told  himself,  but  —  substantial.  There  ought 
to  be  some  loose  jack  lying  around.  Every  one  probably 
in  bed,  too.  There  was  a  light  on  the  top  floor,  and  a 
faint,  subdued  glow  from  one  of  the  downstairs  rooms. 
Just  the  sort  of  light  people  left  burning  all  night.  All 
the  other  rooms,  so  far  as  he  could  tell,  were  dark.  There 
were  lights  in  the  rooms  above  the  garage,  but  they  didn't 
worry  him.  He  wouldn't  make  the  same  mistake  twice  in 
the  same  night.  No  one  would  hear  him  this  time. 

The  moon  was  shining  a  bit  too  brilliantly  for  him  to 
dash  across  the  lawn,  but  a  cloud  was  near  it.  He  waited, 


THE  DAY  OF  FAITH  11 

twenty  minutes  perhaps,  for  the  planet  to  be  obscured. 
Then  he  raced  across  the  lawn,  its  thick  carpet  rendering 
his  progress  noiseless. 

By  the  veranda  steps  he  paused.  He'd  blundered  into 
what  might  have  been  a  ten-  or  twenty-year  prison  term 
less  than  an  hour  ago.  Only  the  most  amazing  luck  in 
the  world,  the  presence  of  a  maniac  in  the  house,  had 
saved  him  from  jail.  For  he  knew  that  if  he  were  once 
arrested  and  identified,  there  were  so  many  charges  hang- 
ing over  his  head  that  Hendricks'  failure  to  prosecute 
would  not  have  saved  him  from  conviction  on  those  other 
charges.  No ;  he'd  not  press  his  luck.  He'd  wait  until 
he  was  sure. 

But  finally  he  was  sure.  Not  a  sound  came  from  the 
house  before  which  he  crouched.  He  tested  the  veranda 
steps.  No  loose  board  was  going  to  announce  his  presence 
a  second  time  on  the  same  night.  Slowly,  quietly,  he 
mounted  the  steps.  He  reached  the  broad  front  door,  and 
his  fingers  touched  its  knob.  It  was  locked,  and  he  stepped 
away  from  it.  Without  tools  it  would  have  been  difficult 
to  unlock.  But  there  were  windows,  plenty  of  them. 

He  passed  the  one  through  which  the  light  burned 
dimly.  Odd  that  the  inmates  kept  a  night  light  in  one  of 
the  rooms  instead  of  in  the  hall.  But  it  was  none  of  his 
business.  He  listened  outside  this  faintly  lighted  room. 
Not  a  sound  came  through  the  glass  and  curtain. 

Ten  feet  beyond  he  paused  again.  He  tried  the  window 
of  the  darkened  room,  and  his  stubbly -bearded  features  re- 
laxed from  the  moment's  tension  in  a  grin.  Another  mo- 
ment and,  still  treading  as  lightly,  despite  his  stocky 
bulk,  as  any  wild  animal  cautiously  stalking  its  prey,  he 
was  in  the  house. 


CHAPTER  II 

IT  would  have  been  hard  for  the  citizenry  of  Leland  to 
have  decided  who  was  the  most  popular  and  best-beloved 
person  in  the  town.  Inevitably,  though,  their  choice  would 
have  borne  the  surname  of  Maynard.  Which  Maynard, 
Marley  or  his  daughter  Jane?  There  the  vote  would 
have  split. 

It  was  true  that  Marley  Maynard  had  been  the  pioneer 
manufacturer  in  the  state  to  adopt  a  profit-sharing  plan 
whereby  his  employees  benefited;  it  was  true  that  he  had 
built  and  equipped  a  hospital  which  he  had  presented  to 
the  town;  it  was  also  true  that  he  had  once  declined  a 
diplomatic  post  in  order,  as  the  town  knew,  that  he  might 
remain  in  Leland  to  combat  certain  proposed  legislation 
that  would  have  worked  harm  to  the  community.  It  was 
further  a  matter  of  common  knowledge  that  Marley  May- 
nard might  have  had  millions,  instead  of  a  few  hundreds 
of  thousands,  had  he  chosen  to  enter  the  combination  in- 
stead of  remaining  an  independent  manufacturer  of  car- 
penters' tools.  He  had  remained  outside,  the  town  knew, 
because  his  entrance  would  have  seriously  affected  the 
lot  of  the  common  workman.  For  these  things  the  town 
honored  and  loved  him. 

But  Jane  Maynard  had  refused  a  duke!  That  was  a 
matter  that  captured  Leland's  imagination.  The  metro- 
politan papers  had  made  much  of  the  nobleman's  wooing 
of  the  untitled  American  girl.  That  Jane  had  publicly 
denied  the  alleged  proposal  made  no  difference.  The  town 
knew  that  it  was  so ;  and,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  it  was  so. 

She  had  been  duly  presented  at  the  Court  of  St.  James 


THE  DAY  OF  FAITH  13 

and  had  won  a  social  success  in  London  that  made  her 
the  envy  of  women  who  possessed  a  hundred  times  her 
wealth.  Her  father's  philanthropies,  his  reputation  as  a 
business  man  of  incorruptible  ideals,  his  standing  in  the 
State  and  national  councils  of  the  political  party  to  which 
he  belonged,  —  these,  added  to  an  ancestry  that  included 
men  notable  in  American  history,  had  served  to  fix  Jane's 
social  position  on  the  highest  plane,  at  home  and  abroad. 

Yet,  when  her  mother's  death  had  cut  short  her 
European  triumphs,  Jane  had  not  taken  up  her  residence 
with  any  of  the  numerous  family  connections  in  New 
York  City.  Leland  adored  her  for  that.  The  small  town 
is  proud  of  its  natives  who  achieve  triumphs  abroad;  but 
it  loves  the  famous  native  who  sticks  to  the  small  town, 
who  makes  it  his  home.  It  satisfies  the  vanity  of  the  rest 
of  the  citizenry  who,  unable  to  dwell  in  the  metropolis, 
frequently  quell  their  fires  of  dissatisfaction  by  announc- 
ing their  devotion  to  the  home  town. 

But  Jane  did  more  than  satisfy  their  vanity ;  believing 
it  her  duty  to  live  with  her  father,  she  took  as  active  an 
interest  in  the  affairs  of  the  town  as  Marley  Maynard 
himself.  No  movement  for  the  betterment  of  conditions 
in  Leland  but  found  Jane  in  its  forefront.  She  had  in- 
herited her  father's  sound  judgment  and  business  instinct. 

But  from  her  mother  she  had  inherited  a  beauty,  a 
charm  of  manner,  a  grace  of  movement,  that  made  one 
sorry  for  the  duke.  With  hair  so  brown  that  at  first 
glance  one  often  mistook  it  for  black ;  with  the  gentlest  of 
big  gray  eyes ;  with  a  straight  nose  that  ended  above  a 
short  upper  lip  that  was  slightly  curved;  with  a  mouth 
neither  large  nor  small  but  sweetly  formed ;  with  a  round 
chin  dimpled  on  one  side,  and  with  a  figure  that  was  slim 
and  straight  and  gently  rounded,  she  was  lovely  enough, 
Leland  thought,  to  have  won  the  fancy  of  a  king,  much 
less  a  mere  duke. 


14  THE  DAY  OF  FAITH 

\ 

Leland  loved  her,  and  she  loved  the  home  town.  But 
more  than  the  town,  more  than  any  social  career,  more 
than  anything  else  in  the  world,  she  loved  her  father. 
For  occasionally  there  exists  between  father  and  daughter 
an  intimacy  sweeter  than  anything  else  in  the  world. 
Marley  Maynard,  sturdy,  erect,  as  capable  at  fifty-five 
of  feats  of  strength  as  he  had  been  at  thirty-five,  was  the 
most  delightful  companion  in  the  world,  so  Jane  thought. 
His  brain,  ever  active,  was  as  young  as  her  own.  He 
was  her  confidant,  her  cavalier.  And  when  he  was  wont 
to  chide  her,  to  tell  her  that  she  mustn't  grow  up  an  old 
maid,  she  would  laugh  at  him  and  tell  him  that  she  was 
waiting  for  some  one  as  fine  as  himself. 

So,  when  Marley  Maynard  was  thrown  from  his  horse, 
dragged  fifty  yards  and  brought  home  unconscious,  Jane 
Maynard  almost  collapsed  beneath  her  fear.  She  would 
have  collapsed  but  for  the  fact  that  her  father  constantly 
demanded  her  presence.  During  those  first  few  days  of 
delirium  he  had  called  her  name  over  and  over  again.  And 
she  had  not  left  his  side. 

And  now  the  period  of  convalescence  had  set  in.  With 
it  Maynard  had  developed  a  strain  of  irritability  hitherto 
foreign  to  his  nature.  In  all  his  manhood  he  had  not 
spent  two  days  in  a  sick  bed,  and  now  he  had  been  in 
bed  three  weeks,  with  a  prospect,  so  the  eminent  New 
York  specialist  had  been  compelled  to  tell  him,  of  remain- 
ing there  at  least  another  month. 

"  And,"  the  specialist  had  said  quietly  to  Jane,  "  he  will 
never  be  really  well  again.  Don't  be  alarmed,"  he  added 
quickly,  as  the  girl's  face  whitened.  "  I  do  not  mean  that 
he  is  in  serious  danger.  What  I  do  mean  is  that  he  must 
be  extremely  cautious.  His  heart  —  he  has  been  too 
active.  Splendidly  muscled,  he  has  thought  that  .the  inner 
organisms  were  as  powerful.  They  never  are.  He  has 
demanded  too  much  of  them.  But,  with  care  and  caution, 


THE  DAY  OF  FAITH  15 

he  will  live  many  years.  But  just  now  —  any  shock  — 
would  be  extremely  dangerous.  So,"  and  he  smiled,  "  if 
he  insists  that  you  be  his  chief  nurse  —  humor  him." 

Jane  had  smiled  wanly.  "Humor  him?  I'll  do  any- 
thing in  the  world." 

So,  since  Maynard,  with  that  new  irritability  that 
illness  and  convalescence  had  brought  to  him,  declared 
that  the  presence  of  a  nurse  in  the  room  made  sleep  im- 
possible, Jane  spent  each  night  with  him.  And,  because 
it  had  been  dangerous  to  carry  him  another  inch  when  he 
had  been  brought  home  after  the  accident,  one  of  the  liv- 
ing rooms  downstairs  had  been  turned  into  a  bedroom. 
Here,  in  a  great  chair,  Jane  sat  each  night,  while  her 
father  slept  fitfully. 

Maynard,  with  that  selfishness  that  sickness  brings  to 
the  most  generous  souls,  did  not  realize  that  his  exactions 
were  wearing  upon  his  daughter,  and  Jane  never  thought 
about  it.  This  was  her  beloved  father,  and  any  little 
service  that  she  could  perform  for  him  was  a  joy,  not  a 
task. 

Upstairs  slept  the  trained  nurse.  During  the  day 
Maynard  would  tolerate  her ;  but  not  at  night.  When  he 
woke  up,  he  wanted  Jane's  soft  hand  to  touch  his  fore- 
head ;  he  wanted  her  voice,  always  merry  no  matter  how 
much  she  worried,  to  cheer  him. 

And  it  was  into  this  room  that  Montreal  Sammy  crept. 

He  had  not  dared  to  light  a  match ;  the  sudden  flare 
might  alarm  some  one.  He  carried  no  flashlight ;  that  was 
now  at  Chicago  police  headquarters,  with  the  rest  of  his 
tools.  He  must  work  in  the  dark.  And  darkness  is  not 
conducive  to  the  best  selection  of  easily  pawnable  jewels; 
one  cannot  find  loose  cash  in  the  gloom. 

So  cautiously  he  had  passed  through  the  room  which 
he  had  first  entered,  into  a  wide  hall.  Directly  opposite 
him  was  a  slightly  opened  door,  through  which  came 


16  THE  DAY  OF  FAITH 

faintly  that  light  which  had  puzzled  him.  He  crept  across 
the  hall;  he  listened  for  fully  five  minutes,  but  not  a  sound 
came  from  the  room.  Probably,  he  decided,  some  one  had 
forgotten  to  turn  off  the  light;  the  room  was  probably 
vacant.  And  so,  crouched,  upon  the  floor,  he  put  his 
head  slowly  around  the  edge  of  the  door  to  make  that  in- 
vestigation which  caution  demanded. 

He  took  in  the  situation  quickly.  Some  one  sick  — 
man  or  woman  he  could  not  tell  —  and  beside  the  bed  in 
which  the  patient  lay  sat  a  young  girl.  The  light  of  the 
shaded  night  lamp  fell  upon  her  features.  Montreal 
Sammy,  not  immune  to  feminine  charms,  nodded  appreci- 
atively. A  peach,  nothing  less.  But  her  good  looks  or 
lack  of  them  were  unimportant.  What  really  counted 
for  something  in  his  life  was  the  fact  that  she  wore  an 
expensive-seeming  ring  upon  one  of  the  fingers  of  her 
right  hand.  That  could  be  pawned  in  New  York  for 
something.  If  that  diamond  were  real  —  and  it  certainly 
sparkled  most  realistically  in  the  dim  light  —  and  Mon- 
treal Sammy  cpuld  get  away  with  it,  life  would  throw  off 
the  drab  cloak  that  at  present  it  wore. 

More  immediately  vital,  too,  was  the  purse  that  lay 
upon  the  table  near  her.  It  was  a  fairly  plump  purse; 
Montreal  Sammy  could  imagine  its  contents.  Ten  dollars 
would  take  him  to  New  York;  he  could  catch  the  mid- 
night train.  But  not  if  a  hue  and  cry  were  raised.  And 
there  was,  of  course,  a  telephone  in  this  house,  through 
which  that  hue  and  cry  might  have  its  initiative. 

The  burglar  withdrew  his  head;  he  crept  across  the 
hall  and  into  the  darkened  room  from  which  he  had  just 
come.  There  he  pondered  the  situation.  And  it  was  an 
unpleasant  one. 

He  congratulated  himself  now  that  he  had  had  fore- 
thought enough  not  to  turn  on  the  lights.  That  would 
have  immediately  attracted  the  attention  of  the  watcher 


THE  DAY  OF  FAITH  17 

by  the  sick  bed.  She  would  have  screamed,  aroused  any 
one  who  might  be  in  the  lighted  room  upstairs.  It 
was  quite  probable,  considering  that  a  person  was  ill,  that 
the  quarters  over  the  garage  did  not  hold  all  the  servants 
employed  in  this  home.  One  or  more  of  them  might  be 
upstairs,  ready  to  answer  a  scream. 

Of  course,  his  way  of  retreat  was  open,  but  still • 

He  wanted  that  diamond;  he  shook  as  though  with  a 
chill,  as  cupidity  and  fear  fought  within  him.  Fear  won. 

For  Montreal  Sammy  had  never  been  a  man  of  violence. 
He  had  made  his  living  by  the  exercise  of  craft;  to  rob 
from  the  person  was  not  his  forte.  He  would  not  attempt 
it  now.  The  girl  might  scream,  might  grapple  with  him, 
hold  him  until  help  came.  Montreal  Sammy  knew  that 
his  muscles  were  flabby;  even  a  young  girl  might  give 
him  battle  that  he  could  not  overcome.  No;  he  would 
not  try  to  take  that  diamond  ring. 

But  her  purse !  He  must  have  it.  And  it  was  useless, 
as  well  as  dangerous,  he  decided,  to  seek  elsewhere  in 
the  house  in  the  darkness  that  must  encompass  him.  And 
then  he  heard  footsteps. 

For  a  moment  he  stood  poised,  ready  to  race  across 
the  room,  dive  through  the  window,  and  flee  the  neighbor- 
hood. Then,  as  he  waited,  he  heard  the  footsteps  progress 
along  the  hall  and  mount  the  stairs.  He  made  instant 
decision.  The  girl  had  probably  gone  upstairs  for  some- 
thing or  other ;  would  return  in  a  few  minutes ;  but  —  all 
he  wanted  was  a  half-minute.  He  would  steal  into  that 
room,  lift  the  purse  from  the  table. 

Halfway  up  the  stairs  Jane  stopped.  She  had  gone 
to  replenish  the  supply  of  a  heart  stimulant  which  her 
father  was  supposed  to  take  several  times  during  the 
night.  The  nurse,  who  prepared  all  tilings  for  Jane's 
night  watching,  had  been  forgetful.  But  suddenly  she 
remembered  that  it  was  she,  not  the  nurse,  who  had  been 


18  THE  DAY  OF  FAITH 

forgetful.  For  the!  nurse  had  told  her  that  the  large 
bottle,  from  which  she  refilled  the  smaller  one  that  now 
was  empty,  was  in  a  closet  off  the  sick  room. 

Montreal  Sammy  had  wanted  but  half  a  minute.  But 
Jane  reentered  the  room  less  than  fifteen  seconds  after 
she  left  it.  And  the  yeggman,  who  had  estimated  the 
height  of  the  stairs  and  had  been  certain  that  he  was  safe, 
and  because  he  was  certain  had  not  listened  as  carefully 
as  he  might  otherwise  have  done,  turned  from  the  table 
to  meet  her  blazing  eyes. 

She  was  gentle  of  soul;  but  the  gentlest  soul  has  its 
moments  of  righteous  wrath.  Jane  had  one  now,  for  she 
knew  that  excitement  would  be  dangerous  to  the  loved  one 
in  the  sick  bed.  Yet,  despite  her  wrath,  inspired  by  fear 
lest  her  father  wake,  its  inspiration,  its  source,  was  of 
sufficient  gravity  to  make  her  master  her  anger. 

She  put  a  finger  instantly  upon  her  lips,  and  with  her 
other  hand  motioned  toward  the  bed.  Montreal  Sammy 
got  her  meaning  at  once.  She  feared  to  arouse  that  figure 
on  the  bed,  a  figure  which  he  had  discovered,  in  a  swift 
glance,  was  masculine,  but  gray-haired,  and  perhaps 
therefore  not  to  be  feared.  A  sick,  old  man.  Montreal 
Sammy  felt  courageous.  And  this  girl,  whom  he  had 
been  afraid  might  attempt  to  detain  him,  —  she  was  scared 
to  death,  too. 

A  thought  came  to  him.  He'd  been  discovered;  doubt- 
less an  alarm  would  at  once  be  raised,  as  soon  as  he  had 
left  the  house.  One  might  as  well  be  hung  for  a  sheep  as  a 
lamb.  If  she  were  afraid  to  make  a  noise  — 

"  Gimme  the  ring,"  he  said.  His  hoarse  whisper  was 
barely  audible,  yet  Jane  shivered  with  fright  lest  May- 
nard  awake.  Immediately  she  stripped  the  jewel  from 
her  hand ;  she  held  it  out  toward  the  burglar.  And  then 
Maynard  spoke. 

He  had  been  on  the  edge  of  wakefulness  for  several 


THE  DAY  OF  FAITH  19 

minutes.  That  faint,  hoarse  whisper  of  Montreal  Sammy 
precipitated  him  over  the  edge.  And  he  was  the  sort 
of  person  that  awakes  in  full  possession  of  the  faculties. 

There  was  light  enough  in  the  room  for  him  to  see 
that  a  man  was  there ;  and  the  light  fell  upon  the  diamond1 
that  Jane  extended.  He  took  in  the  situation  at  a  glance. 

"  Why,  you  damn'  scoundrel,"  he  cried. 

And  then  he  leaped  from  the  bed.  He  took  two  for- 
ward steps,  and  then  his  legs  bent  beneath  him;  with  an 
inarticulate  murmur  he  pitched  forward  upon  his  face. 

Montreal  Sammy  had  turned,  his  fists  clenched.  A  sick 
old  man  was  some  one  that  he  did  not  fear  to  meet  in 
battle.  But  as  Maynard  fell,  the  burglar  turned.  He 
leaped  toward  Jane. 

"  Gimme  that  ring,"  he  yelled. 

There  exists  between  persons  of  the  same  blood,  some- 
times, something  that  science  has  not  yet  explained.  Per- 
haps it  is  simply  that  they  are  branches  of  the  same 
trunk,  and  that  when  one  of  them  is  lopped  off,  the  trunk 
feels  the  blow  and  communicates  its  feeling  to  the  other 
branches. 

Maynard  had  fallen  unconscious  to  the  floor.  Despite 
the  dictum  of  the  physician,  there  was  no  reason  for 
Jane  to  believe  that  death  had  come  to  him.  And  yet  she 
knew.  And,  knowing,  grief  for  the  moment  gave  way  to 
rage,  the  rage  of  one  who  has  seen  its  best-loved  slain. 

Montreal  Sammy  had  thought  that  he  had  but  to 
reach  for  the  ring.  He  did  so,  but  he  did  not  touch  it. 
For  Jane's  hand  drove  straight  forward;  it  struck  the 
lips  of  Montreal  Sammy,  and  the  diamond  cut  into  them. 
And  as  he  stepped  back,  cursing,  Jane  threw  herself  upon 
him. 

For  only  a  moment  she  held  him;  for  now  the  burglar 
fought  with  the  desperation  of  fear.  She  was  almost  as 
strong  as  he,  but  the  collar  which  she  had  seized  came 


20  THE  DAY  OF  FAITH 

away  in  her  hand.  Montreal  Sammy  leaped  backward,, 
then  to  one  side,  and  then  dashed  through  the  door, 
across  the  hall,  and  out  the  window  of  the  darkened  room. 
But  the  scream  of  Jane  did  more  than  arouse  the  sleeping 
nurse  upstairs.  It  reached  the  ears  of  two  men  walking 
briskly  down  the  street. 

They  paused.     They  looked  inquiringly  at  each  other. 

"  That's  from  Maynard's  house,  Jackson,"  said  the 
older  man. 

Jackson  made  no  reply.  He  leaped  the  hedge  and 
ran  across  the  lawn.  So  it  was  that  just  as  Montreal 
Sammy  jumped  from  the  veranda  td  the  ground,  Jackson 
arrived  there.  The  burglar  dodged,  and  Jackson  dived, 
bringing  his  man  to  ground  with  an  old-fashioned  football 
tackle,  a  tackle  that  had  made  him  famous  a  dozen 
years  ago. 

He  rose,  dragging  his  victim  with  him,  his  fist  clenched, 
prepared  to  knock  his  man  out  if  there  were  need.  But 
there  was  not ;  Montreal  Sammy,  the  breath  knocked  from 
him  by  his  fall,'  had  no  fight  in  him.  Jackson  turned  to 
his  companion,  a  heavy-set  man  who  had  not  been  able 
to  leap  the  hedge  and  had  come  the  more  roundabout  way 
of  the  driveway. 

"  Hold  him,  Kelly,"  he  said,  "  while  I  go  in  - 

Kelly  gripped  both  wrists  of  the  burglar.  "  I've  got 
him,"  he  said. 

Jackson  turned  toward  the  house;  as  he  crossed  the 
veranda,  the  door  was  thrown  open.  Jane  saw  him  and 
recognized  him. 

"  Mr.  Jackson  — •  a  burglar  —  he  killed  —  father  —  " 

From  upstairs  the  nurse  came  running  down  the  hall. 
She  heard  Jane's  words ;  she  ran  into  the  sick  room.  The 
two  in  the  hall  heard  a  faint  cry  come  from  her,  a  cry 
that  bore  out  Jane's  statement. 

The  young  girl  shuddered.     Jackson  put  forward  his 


THE  DAY  OF  FAITH  21 

hand  as  though  to  catch  her.  But  she  waved  it  away ;  she 
was  strong,  strong  with  the  most  powerful  motive  in 
the  world  save  one,  —  hate.  For  she  had  seen  the  shad- 
owy figures  on  the  lawn  below. 

"  Did  you  catch  him?  "  she  asked. 

Jackson  nodded.     "  We  have  him,  Miss  Maynard." 

From  her  lips  came  an  incoherent  cry;  it  might  have 
been  a  prayer  for  her  father;  it  might  have  been  an 
expression  of  horrified  grief;  but  to  Jackson  it  sounded 
like  a  cry  of  triumph,  a  cry  torn  from  the  depths  of  a 
hate-filled  heart.  Then,  when  she  knew  that  the  burglar 
was  captured,  and  not  before,  did  she  yield  to  the  demands 
of  nature.  She  fainted  in  Jackson's  arms. 

Ten  minutes  later,  when  servants  were  busied  in  the 
house  of  death,  when  Montreal  Sammy  had  been  bundled 
off  in  charge  of  an  officer,  and  Jane  was  lying  in  bed 
under  the  ministration  of  the  nurse,  Jackson  turned  to 
Kelly.  His  hard  young  voice  was  never  more  bitter. 

"  I  hope,"  he  said,  "  that  Bland  Hendricks  will  be 
satisfied  with  his  night's  work.  If  he'd  let  me  jail  that 
scoundrel " 

"Don't,"  said  Kelly.  "Bland  will  feel  worse  than 
we  do." 

"  He  ought  to,"  said  Jackson  viciously.  He  swore 
fiercely.  "  If  I  never  win  another  case,  I'll  win  this  one. 
I'll  send  that  man  to  the  chair  if  it's  the  last  act." 

Kelly  started.     "  Murder?  "  he  asked. 

"  I'll  make  it  murder,"  said  Jackson. 


CHAPTER  III 

MAULEY  MAYNARD  died  on  Monday  night.  On  Thurs- 
day, his  body  having  lain  in  state  for  twenty-four  hours 
in  the  Leland  City  Hall,  guarded  by  State  troops  sent 
by  the  Governor  of  New  York  to  pay  this  last  honor,  he 
was  buried.  On  Friday  a  special  grand  jury,  hastily  im- 
panelled at  the  request  of  District  Attorney  Samuel  Jack- 
son, found  an  indictment  for  murder  against  Montreal 
Sammy.  It  was  a  thin  charge;  Montreal  Sammy  had 
carried  no  lethal  weapon ;  he  had  not  touched  Marley 
Maynard.  It  was  true  that  one  who  in  the  execution  of 
a  lesser  crime  commits  a  greater  is  liable  to  the  penalty 
for  that  greater,  but  Montreal  Sammy  had  not  committed 
that  greater.  Maynard  had  died  through  shock. 

"  What  you  givin'  me  ?  "  demanded  the  burglar,  when 
a  jailer  brought  him  the  news  that  he  would  have  to  face 
trial  for  his  life.  "  Why,"  he  cried,  "  they  can't  try  me 
for  murder!  " 

The  jailer  grinned.  "  They  can't,  hey?  Well,  my 
friend,  they're  gain'  to !  " 

"  They're  railroadin'  me,"  whined  Sammy. 

"You  said  it,  feller,"  agreed  the  jailer.  "They're 
a-goin'  to  shove  you  through  as  fast  as  the  law  allows. 
And  when  the  jury  and  the  judge  get  through  with  you, 
there's  a  nice  warm  chair  up  at  Sing  Sing,  and  they're 
a-goin'  to  strap  you  in  it  and  turn  on  the  juice,  and  the 
coal  shortage  won't  worry  you  no  more." 

Ordinarily,  despite  his  profession,  the  jailer  was  a 
kindly  enough  man.  He  had  a  wife  and  three  children, 
and  all  four  of  them  considered  him  the  best-natured  man 


THE  DAY  OF  FAITH  23 

in  the  world.  But  there  was  no  kindliness  in  Leland 
when  people  thought  of  Marley  Maynard.  Only  the  fact 
that  Jackson  himself  had  pleaded  with  the  crowd  that 
had  gathered,  on  Tuesday  night,  before  the  jail  doors  had 
saved  Montreal  Sammy  from  a  lynching. 

Jackson  had  pleaded  with  all  his  heart.  And  he  had 
made  a  promise :  he  would  demand  that  the  prisoner  be 
placed  on  trial  for  murder,  and  he  would  do  all  in  his 
power  to  send  the  scoundrel  to  the  chair. 

With  this  the  irate  citizenry  was  content.  Hundreds 
of  them  waited  outside  the  courthouse  on  Friday,  and 
when  it  became  known  that  the  grand  jury  had  found  its 
indictment,  cheers  greeted  the  news.  Montreal  Sammy 
in  his  cell,  heard  the  murmur  of  the  throng.  And  his 
jailer  gave  him  no  opportunity  to  wonder  as  to  its  rea- 
son. 

Hopeless  as  any  trapped  rat,  the  burglar  waited  for 
his  trial.  He  had  no  money;  he  could  employ  no  at- 
torney ;  and  when,  on  Monday,  he  was  arraigned  and  the 
judge  assigned  him  counsel,  the  lawyer's  manner  was  so 
perfunctory  that  Montreal  Sammy  gave  up  the  fight. 
He  didn't  have  a  rat's  chance,  he  told  himself. 

But  on  Tuesday  morning  the  jailer,  sneering,  brought 
to  his  cell  a  most  distinguished-seeming  gentleman. 
Sammy  could  not  believe  his  ears  when  the  visitor  gave  his 
name.  It  was  that  of  New  York's  most  famous  criminal 
lawyer. 

"  Cheer  up,"  said  his  visitor.  "  They  can't  convict  you 
on  this  murder  charge.  And  if  they  do  it  will  be  overruled 
in  the  higher  courts.  Not  a  chance.  Now  —  tell  me  your 
story." 

"  Who  sent  you  here  ?  "  demanded  the  burglar.  He 
hadn't  a  friend  on  earth  who  would  finance  the  retention 
of  John  Cartlery. 


26  THE  DAY  OF  FAITH 

Sammy  could  have  taken  no  appeal,  could  not  have  been 
saved. 

Why?  Why  had  Bland  Hendricks,  her  father's  friend, 
done  this  thing? 

When  she  announced  her  intention  of  visiting  the  bank, 
an  aunt,  come  hastily  from  New  York  to  help  her  niece 
through  the  time  of  sorrow,  protested.  But  Jane  waved 
the  protest  aside.  She  was  strong,  buoyed  up  by  the 
powerful  passion  of  hate.  She  drove  her  own  car  to  the 
bank,  stopped  it,  with  no  uncertainty  of  movement,  close 
to  the  curb,  and  entered  the  building. 

The  conversational  hum  created  by  clients  and  employ- 
ees died  away  as  she  entered.  She  had  never  been  so  beau- 
tiful; the  black  that  she  wore  enhanced  her  beauty;  the 
crimson  that  anger  had  given  to  her  cheeks  made  her  seem 
more  alive,  more  vital,  than  she  had  ever  seemed  before. 
For  perhaps  there  had  been  in  her  expression,  hitherto, 
something  of  that  coldness,  that  reserve,  that  goes  with 
persons  whose  characters  are  as  yet  untouched  by  emotion. 
But  it  was  gone  now.  Her  eyes  held  a  fiery  light ;  even 
her  walk,  always  graceful,  seemed  to  have  a  new  sinuosity. 
Hate,  perhaps,  had  advanced  her  from  girlhood  into 
womanhood. 

She  asked  for  Hendricks.  He  came  to  her  when,  coldly, 
she  refused  to  enter  his  private  office.  There  were  deeper 
lines  than  ever  in  his  kindly  face;  his  mouth,  so  oddly 
sweet  for  a  man,  was  sad.  He  advanced  toward  her,  his 
hands  outstretched. 

"  My  dear  Jane !  "  he  exclaimed. 

The  girl  stared  at  him;  her  mouth,  that  had  been 
straight,  twisted  in  curves  that  were  almost  ugly.  For  a 
moment  she  met  his  eyes,  then  her  own  dropped  to  his  ex- 
tended hands;  they  lifted  again  and  met  his  gaze.  She 
made  no  attempt  to  accept  his  proffered  handclasp.  In- 
stead, she  folded  her  hands  together. 


THE  DAY  OF  FAITH  27 

Hendricks  colored  slightly.  **  You  are  angry  ?  You 
blame  me  for  what  I  have  done?  " 

Tellers,  cashier,  messengers,  depositors,  —  they  num- 
bered almost  a  score,  and  every  one  of  them  stared  at 
the  two. 

"  Blame  you  ?  "  Though  she  fought  for  self-control, 
her  voice  rose  slightly.  "  I  despise  you !  A  friend  of  my 
father's,  you  shield  his  murderer,  you  buy  his  im- 
munity   " 

"  Jane ! "  Into  Hendricks'  ever-kindly  voice  crept 
sternness.  "  You  don't  know  what  you  are  saying.  The 
man  is  not  a  murderer " 

"  He  is !  Who  are  you  to  put  yourself  above  my  real 
friends,  my  father's  real  friends?  Oh!"  Her  hands 
clenched,  lifted,  then  dropped  before  her.  Guided  by 
overwhelming  anger,  she  had  come  down  here  with  no 
knowledge  of  what  she  was  to  say ;  she  only  knew  that  she 
wanted  this  man  to  know  her  hatred  for  him.  And  she 
could  find  no  words  wherewith  to  express  it.  She  felt  baf- 
fled, humiliated.  Here  before  her  was  a  mar.'  who  shielded, 
saved  from  death  the  man  who  was  responsible  for  her 
father's  death.  Love  for  that  dear  father  should  lend 
her  eloquence,  and  yet  she  was  dumb.  She  could  express 
herself  only  in  an  action  which  she  knew  was  so  anti-cli- 
matic as  to  be  almost  childish.  She  walked  abruptly 
away  from  the  banker  and  spoke  to  the  cashier,  staring 
through  his  steel  grating  at  her. 

"  What  is  my  balance?  "  she  asked.  "  I  wish  to  with- 
draw my  account." 

A  man  at  the  receiving  teller's  window  heard  her  words. 
On  sudden  impulse,  he  joined  her  side. 

"  Tell  me  mine,  too,"  he  said  loudly.  "  I  want  to  with- 
draw mine." 

Twenty  minutes  later,  all  Leland  knew  that  every  man 
who  considered  himself  a  friend  of  Marley  Maynard,  who 


28  THE  DAY  OF  FAITH 

felt  any  loyalty  toward  that  dead  man,  and  who  also  had 
an  account  in  Bland  Hendricks'  bank,  was  withdrawing 
his  money  from  the  institution.  At  one-thirty  the  direc- 
tors of  the  bank  met  in  hurried  council;  at  two  it  was 
announced  that  the  resignation  of  Hendricks  as  president 
of  the  bank  had  been  demanded  and  given. 

Ten  minutes  later  Bland  Hendricks  emerged  from  the 
bank.  The  street  was  thronged  with  people  who  had 
known  him  all  his  life.  They  were  his  friends,  his  as- 
sociates. And  yet  the  roar  of  hatred,  of  contempt,  with 
which  they  greeted  him  was  as  venomous,  as  merciless  as, 
during  the  war,  a  convicted  traitor  might  have  met. 

He  was  a  brave  man,  yet  for  a  moment  he  shrank  be- 
fore them.  Then,  on  impulse,  he  lifted  his  hand.  The 
cries  ceased.  Curiosity  held  the  crowd. 

"  My  friends,"  he  asked,  "  what  have  I  done?  " 

Clamor  shook  the  air,  yet  before  his  still  uplifted  hand 
it  died  away  again. 

"  I  have  only  tried,"  he  said,  "  to  see  that  an  un- 
fortunate ma^-- received  justice.  In  a  moment  of  insane 
hatred  this  whole  community  has  wished  to  see  a  man 
punished  for  a  deed  that  he  did  not  commit,  a  deed 
that  he  did  not  intend." 

"  How  do  you  know  he  didn't  ?  "  cried  some  one. 

"  I  don't  believe  it,"  answered  Hendricks. 

"  You  let  him  go  when  he  was  caught  once,"  cried  the 
speaker.  He  had  pushed  himself  forward  now  until  he 
confronted  Hendricks.  It  was  the  red-faced  Kelly,  his 
face  more  crimson  now  than  ever.  "  You  talked  a  lot  of 
damn'  rot  about  perfection  —  look  what  your  perfect 
man  did !  He  murdered  Marley  Maynard,  that's  what  he 
did!  And  he  won't  go  to  the  chair,  because  of  you!  I 
suppose  that  you  still  believe  this  crook,  this  yeggman, 
this  murderer,  is  a  perfect  human  being?  " 

Into  the  last  three  words  Kelly  hurled  all  the  sarcasm 


THE  DAY  OF  FAITH  29 

he  could.  The  crowd  roared  in  angry  mirth  at  his  witti- 
cism. Then,  silenced,  they  waited  for  Hendricks'  reply. 
Slowly  it  came. 

"  I  do  believe  it,"  he  said.  "  I  do  firmly  believe  it. 
And  if  the  rest  of  you  —  if  all  of  us  would  see  him  thus, 
then  there  could  be  no  doubt." 

He  paused,  then  began  to  descend  the  steps.  But  Kelly 
barred  his  way. 

"  You've  said  what  you  believe,  Hendricks,"  he  said. 
"I'll  tell  you  what  I  believe :  that  you  are  a  damn'  maniac, 
who  ought  to  be  confined  in  an  asylum,  and  by  the  lord, 
I'm  one  man  who's  goin'  to  try  to  put  you  there !  " 

Over  Hendricks'  face  spread  a  smile  of  inexpressible 
sadness. 

"  Do  something  else,  Kelly,  my  friend,"  he  pleaded. 
"  Try  to  believe  me." 

"  Believe  you  ?  "  Kelly  struck  down  the  extended  hand. 
"  If  you  weren't  an  insane  man,  I'd  help  to  ride  you  on  a 
rail."  He  glared  for  a  moment  at  Hendricks,  then  spat 
upon  the  ground  and  strode  back  through'  the  crowd. 

For  a  moment  Hendricks  stared  after  him,  his  face 
grave,  ineffably  sad.  For  Kelly  was  one  of  his  oldest 
friends ;  Kelly  had  listened  gravely  to  his  pleas  for  the 
better  treatment  of  those  convicted  of  crime;  Kelly,  until 
the  capture  on  Hendricks'  veranda  of  Montreal  Sammy, 
had  seemed  to  agree  with  him.  Kelly  had  even,  with  a 
good-humored  smile,  listened  while  Hendricks  had,  at 
various  times,  proclaimed  his  faith  that  all  men  were  per- 
fect, and  that  the  world  had  but  to  recognize  this  fact  to 
achieve  complete  happiness.  And  now  Kelly,  one  of  his 
oldest  and  closest  friends,  had  spurned  him,  had  struck 
down  his  extended  hand. 

The  crowd  gave  way  for  him ;  not  one  there  but  knew 
of  the  old  intimacy  of  Kelly  and  Hendricks;  it  seemed, 


30  THE  DAY  OF  FAITH 

at  the  moment,  that  all  that  could  be  done  to  Hendricks 
had  been  done. 

But  Kelly  had  used  a  phrase  that  stuck  in  men's  mem- 
ories. He  had  spoken  of  riding  Hendricks  on  a  rail.  The 
phrase  was  repeated;  it  went  beyond  the  crowd  who  had 
heard  it;  in  higher  and  lower  social  circles,  in  the  back 
rooms  of  dives  and  in  drawing-rooms,  the  phrase  was 
uttered. 

To  ride  Bland  Hendricks  on  a  rail !  More !  To  tar 
and  feather  him  —  business  men  and  bar-room  loafers; 
lawyers,  doctors,  merchants  —  the  psychology  of  the  mob 
is  little  known.  Why  do  men,  in  company,  do  things  that 
they  would  scorn  to  do  alone?  Why,  under  the  spell  of 
passion,  does  the  last  vestige  of  civilization  slough  off 
men's  souls?  It  does  not  do  to  say  that  mobs  are  made 
up  of  outlaws,  real  or  potential.  For  if  that  be  true,  then 
all  of  us  are  outlaws  in  our  hearts.  For  there  lives  no 
one  who  has  not  felt,  at  some  time  or  other,  the  urge  of 
the  mob  spirit,  to  destroy,  to  injure,  even  to  kill! 

Who  first  framed  the  hour  and  the  rendezvous  could 
never  have  been  told.  For  the  first  man  to  make  a  concrete 
suggestion  of  Kelly's  phrase  probably  was  unaware  that 
he  had  made  it,  probably  thought  that  some  one  else  had 
done  so.  Perhaps,  indeed,  a  dozen  men  said  it  at  once. 
For  the  will  was  in  a  hundred  hearts,  and  what  are  words 
but  the  will  expressed  ? 

And  so,  shortly  after  dark,  in  the  square  opposite  the 
courthouse,  men  gathered.  Self-elected  leaders  addressed 
them,  urged  them  on  to  a  deed  to  which,  passion-ruled, 
they  needed  scant  entreaty.  The  police  looked  on  in 
apathy.  The  so-called  better  classes  made  no  protest; 
their  representatives  were  in  that  mob.  And  suddenly, 
tiring  of  talk,  as  by  one  common  impulse  they  moved  away 
from  the  square,  out  toward  the  house  where  Hendricks 
sat  in  lonely  silence. 


THE  DAY  OF  FAITH  31 

The  vanguard  of  the  mob  passed  the  Maynard  home. 
A  servant  learned  their  intention.  He  told  Jane's  aunt 
who,  horror-stricken,  came  to  her. 

"  They're  going  to  ride  Bland  Hendricks  on  a  rail?  " 
echoed  the  girl. 

Her  aunt  nodded.  "  Perhaps  you  could  stop  them, 
Jane." 

The  girl  smiled.  "  Stop  them?  Perhaps  I  could!  But 
I  won't.  I'm  going  to  watch  them  —  to  help  them  if  they 
want!" 


CHAPTER  IV 

WHEN  Bland  Hendricks  was  five  years  old,  the  Civil 
War  was  beginning  to  stir  in  the  womb  of  misunderstand- 
ing. His  father,  a  pioneer  agitator  against  slavery,  had 
had  something  to  do  with  the  famous  Underground  Rail- 
way by  which  fugitive  blacks  were  brought  safely  to  the 
free  States.  And  on  that  fifth  birthday  a  strange  little 
boy  had  been  a  guest.  He  had  remained  a  member  of  the 
Hendricks  household  for  sixty  years.  Three  years  older 
than  Hendricks,  he  worshiped  the  little  white  boy  whom 
it  was  his  destiny  to  serve.  He  took  the  Hendricks  name ; 
although,  in  manhood,  many  a  sable-hued  charmer  cast 
languishing  glances  his  way,  he  was  blind  to  blandishment. 
His  father  and  mother  had  been  slaves;  he,  Isaac  Hend- 
ricks, was  a  freeman ;  and  he  could  dream  no  higher  dream 
than  to  serve  Bland  Hendricks. 

Through  all  the  years  he  had  never  been  away  from  his 
employer,  whom  he  called  his  master.  In  boyhood  a 
playfellow  and  protector;  in  youth  a  body  servant ;  and  in 
manhood  director  of  the  domestic  affairs  of  the  Hendricks 
menage.  Bland  Hendricks  was  his  god. 

As  for  Hendricks,  he  held  for  Isaac  an  affection  that 
years  had  strengthened.  When  the  one  girl,  back  in  the 
eighties,  had  died,  and  Hendricks  had  known  that  life 
henceforth  was  for  him  a  period  of  waiting,  it  was  Isaac 
who  received  his  confidences ;  Isaac  who,  oddly  enough, 
had  given  him  the  comfort  that  his  equals  could  not  offer. 
Between  the  two  was  that  understanding  that  six  decades 
of  companionship  created. 

That  he  imposed  upon  the  good  nature  of  his  master, 


THE  DAY  OF  FAITH  33 

that  he  was  dishonest  in  minor  matters,  and  that  the  truth 
was  something  that  he  held  too  sacredly  to  abuse  by  fre- 
quent use,  made  no  difference  in  that  understanding^ 
Bland  Hendricks  did  not  expect  the  product  of  the  jungle 
to  possess  the  ethical  sense  that  it  has  taken  the  white 
man  hundreds  of  centuries  to  attain.  And  he  had  for 
the  black  man's  superstitions  no  contempt,  only  a  kindly 
and  amused  tolerance. 

So,  his  early  dinner  ended,  he  smiled  when  Isaac,  who 
had  shown  an  increasing  nervousness  as  he  served  the  meal,, 
said: 

"  I  got  a  feeling  Mist'  Bland,  'at  you  an'  me  oughta 
git  outa  this  town  to-night.  I  had  a  c'munication,  Mist* 
Bland." 

His  "  communications,"  as  he  called  them,  were,  he  was 
wont  to  assert,  direct  statements  made  to  him  by  persons; 
long  dead  but  with  whom  he  maintained  spiritual  and 
verbal  intercourse. 

"So?"  said  Hendricks.  His  smile,  though  tolerant, 
was  wearied.  He  had  spent  four  hours  in  his  study,  suffer- 
ing those  tortures  that  can  be  endured  only  by  a  proud 
soul  who  has  been  denied  and  scorned  by  all  whom  he 
has  held  dear.  Kelly  —  those  others  in  the  bank  and  on 
the  street  —  One  of  them  —  just  one  —  might  have 
called,  might  have  telephoned.  Ostracism,  to  one  who  is 
companionable,  has  always  been  socially  inclined,  holds 
horror. 

"  Yassuh,  Mist'  Bland.     Shall  I  ordeh  the  car?  " 

Hendricks  frowned  slightly.  Isaac  was  so  eager;  his 
lips  trembled ;  as  he  spoke,  he  brushed  drops  of  sweat  from 
his  forehead.  Well,  Isaac  was  getting  old.  He,  Bland 
Hendricks,  was  almost  seventy,  and  Isaac  was  some  years 
older.  Perhaps  he  had  been  wrong  in  tolerating  the  old 
Negro's  superstitions. 

"  You  behave  yourself,  Isaac,"  he  said  sternly. 


34  THE  DAY  OF  FAITH 

"  Yassuh."  The  black  man  bowed  humbly  and  shuf- 
fled out  of  the  dining  room,  leaving  Hendricks  to  con- 
sume his  cigar  and  drink  his  coffee  alone.  But  half  an 
hour  later  Isaac  came,  almost  running,  into  the  study, 
whither  Hendricks  had  gone. 

"  Mist*  Bland,  I  got  anotheh  c'munication.  I  know 
wheah  Bennett  "  —  IK  mentioned  Hendricks'  chauffeur  — 
"  is  spendin'  the  evenin'.  Shall  I  'phone  him  ?  " 

Hendricks  stared  at  his  servant.  Old  Isaac's  woolly 
pate  was  shaking ;  his  teeth  were  chattering ;  his  ebon  face 
had  taken  on  a  shade  of  gray. 

"Isaac,"  he  demanded,  "what's  the  matter  with  you? 
Of  course  you  won't  telephone  Bennett.  He's  entitled  t& 
his  day  off  without  interruption.  You'd  better  go  to  bed, 
Isaac." 

"  Bed?  Huh !  An*  dat  mob  drag  me  outa  it,  an'  maybe 
say,  *  Niggehs  makes  good  bonfires,  anyway,  and  whiles 
we  got  fuel  handy,  why  look  around  ? '  No,  suh !  Mist' 
Bland,  let's  you  an*  me  hustle  right  outa  heah  whiles'  de 
hustlin's  good." 

Hendricks  stared.  "  What  on  earth  are  you  talking 
about,  Isaac?  " 

"  I'm  talkin',"  said  the  black  man,  "  about  what  I  didn't 
want  to  talk ;  about  de  mob  what's  on  its  way  up  heah  — 
or  will  be  soon  —  and  is  goin'  to  ride  you  on  a  rail  and 
Lawd  knows  what  else." 

Hendricks  leaped  to  his  feet.  His  kindly  mouth  stiff- 
ened ;  his  stubborn  chin  suddenly  became  pugnacious ;  the 
tired  eyes  flashed.  Then  he  sank  back  into  his  chair. 
Isaac  was  sprung  from  an  imaginative  race ;  he  had  heard 
garbled  reports  of  the  scene  in  and  outside  the  bank  this 
afternoon;  he  had  become  frightened.  For,  with  all  his 
loyalty  and  devotion,  Isaac  was  not  of  the  stuff  of  which 
heroes  are  made.  Now  Hendricks  laughed. 


THE  DAY  OF  FAITH  35 

*'  Isaac,  you're  an  old  coward.  Mob?  What  on  earth 
put  such  an  idea  into  your  head?  " 

"I  tell  you,  Mist'  Bland,  it  ain't  no  idea !  It's  de  God's 
truth."  In  his  terror  he  forgot  all  about  the  alleged 
spiritual  source  of  his  "  communications."  He  went  on 
eagerly,  "  I  tell  you,  Mist'  Bland,  when  I  was  downtown 
marketin'  dis  af tehnoon  I  heerd  'em  talk.  And  whiles'  you 
was  at  dinneh,  dat  mulatto  what  works  in  de  co'thouse 
telephones  me  and  tells  what  fixin'  foh  to  happen,  and  jes* 
now  he  rings  me  up  again,  and  says  de  mob  is  f  ormin'  and 
talkin'  tar  and  feathehs  an'  ridin'  you  on  a  rail.  Foh 
God's  sake,  Mist'  Bland,  let's  git  out." 

There  was  no  doubting  the  man.  Whether  or  not  what 
he  said  was  true,  he  believed  it.  And  Hendricks  believed 
it,  too !  He  knew  what  the  temper  of  the  Leland  citizenry 
was ;  he  knew  how  easily,  even  in  a  northern  town,  the  mob 
spirit  can  be  evoked.  That  he  had  lived  decently  and 
fairly  in  this  town,  injuring  no  one,  so  far  as  he  knew,  in 
his  sixty-odd  years,  would  make  no  difference. 

For  a  moment  he  was  tempted  to  fly.  Then  he  thought 
of  summoning  friends.  He  smiled  at  that  last  thought. 
Had  he  any  friends  left  in  all  of  Leland?  And  then  came 
still  another  thought,  one  that  made  his  lips  unconsciously 
grim. 

He  had  professed  a  certain  faith.  What  was  flight, 
what  was  the  calling  of  friends  to  his  side,  but  a  surrender 
of  that  faith?  Did  he  believe  it?  Did  he,  in  his  heart  of 
hearts,  believe  that  all  men  were  perfect,  incapable,  if  their 
true  selves  were  revealed,  of  injuring  one  another,  or  had 
he  given  lip  service  only  to  an  ideal? 

And  suddenly  into  his  eyes  flashed  that  light  which  men 
call  insane;  the  light  that  must  have  burned  in  the  eyes 
of  the  martyrs,  dimming  by  its  brilliance  the  flames  that 
crept  into  their  garments,  along  their  limbs. 

He  looked  at  Isaac  and  shook  his  head. 


36  THE  DAY  OF  FAITH 

"  Isaac,"  he  said,  "  it  isn't  possible." 

The  black  man  looked  at  his  employer.  In  his  eyes 
also  burned  a  light:  the  light  of  panic,  the  panic  that 
conquers  all  courage,  the  panic  that  is  close  enough  to  the 
heart  of  the  white  man,  nerved  as  he  is  by  centuries  of 
repression  of  instinctive  fears,  but  that  is  still  part  of 
the  black  man's  very  spirit. 

"  Mist'  Bland,  you's  crazy." 

"  Perhaps  I  am,"  smiled  Hendricks.  "  But  you  — 
Isaac,  don't  you  stay  here.  You  run  along  downtown 
somewhere " 

Pride  came  to  the  black  man's  heart.  "  Mist'  Bland, 
you  think  I'm  goin*  run  away  from  you?  I'll  die  first." 

He  turned  and  shuffled  out  of  the  room;  and  as  he 
crossed  the  threshold,  he  heard  the  first  cry  of  the  mob. 
In  the  hall  beyond  he  stopped ;  his  ears  pricked  up  as  the 
ears  of  an  animal  do.  He  half-turned,  held  out  a  hand 
toward  the  room  which  he  had  left;  his  mouth  opened, 
then  closed  without  speech.  Fear  —  blind,  unreasoning 
fear  —  seized  him  and  did  with  him  what  she  willed.  As 
the  vanguard  of  the  mob  turned  into  the  Hendricks  drive- 
way, old  Isaac  was  crossing  the  ground  in  the  rear  of  the 
house.  When  the  first  fist  pounded  upon  the  front  door, 
Isaac  was  scaling  the  rear  fence,  fleeing  the  most  terrible 
thing  in  the  world  —  the  mob. 

Hendricks,  in  his  study,  heard  the  cries,  the  steps  upon 
the  veranda,  the  pounding  fists  that  disdained  the  bell. 
Then,  because  he  was  not  the  sort  to  wait  for  danger,  he 
walked  from  the  study  down  the  hall. 

Danger?  If  he  conceded  its  existence,  did  he  not  create 
it?  He  glanced  over  his  shoulder.  He  knew  that  Isaac 
had  fled.  Sixty  years  of  intimate  acquaintance  had  in- 
formed him  as  to  Isaac's  courage.  Well,  bless  his  old 
heart ;  he  had  a  right  to  run.  And  he  had  paid  his  master 
a  very  subtle  compliment  in  pretending  to  have  received 


THE  DAY  OF  FAITH  37 

spiritual  warnings ;  he  knew  that  Bland  Hendricks  would 
not  accept  anything  else.  The  glow  that  consciousness  of 
courage  brings  crept  into  his  heart.  Then  he  cast  it  from 
him.  He  was  not  courageous ;  he  had  knowledge ;  that  was 
it.  He  knew  that  his  fellow  man  would  do  him  no  injury; 
that  was  his  courage;  and  he  was  smiling  at  his  own 
vanity  as  he  threw  wide  the  door. 

Mobs  are  cowardly.  That  is  why  a  single  man  firm  in 
his  resolve  to  enforce  the  law  can  often  subdue  hundreds 
of  angry  rioters.  If  each  member  of  the  mob  could  stop 
to  analyze  his  own  thoughts,  he  would  know  that  only  the 
presence  of  his  fellows  gives  him  courage,  that,  were  he 
alone,  he  would  flee  the  scene  of  his  contemplated  crime. 

Mobs  respect  courage.  The  single  man  who  defies  them 
always  makes  them  pause.  It  may  be  that  later,  whipped 
to  frenzy  by  their  own  passions,  they  crush  the  defiant 
one,  but  for  the  moment  they  always  stop  and  give  him 
heed. 

So  now,  those  leaders  who  had  reached  the  Hendricks 
veranda  gave  way,  retreated  to  the  head  of  the  steps,  as 
Hendricks  was  framed  in  the  doorway.  The  cries  of  the 
later  comers,  who  had  surged  across  the  lawn,  trampling 
the  grass  into  mud,  ceased  as  they  looked  upon  the  man  in 
search  of  whom  they  had  come. 

The  veranda  light  overhead  fell  full  upon  their  quarry's 
face,  and  they  saw  that  he  smiled.  Had  there  been  the 
faintest  suspicion  of  a  sneer  in  that  smile,  they  would  have 
hurled  themselves  upon  him  at  once.  But  a  smile  of  calm 
confidence,  of  courage  unassailed,  was  not  what  they  had 
expected  to  find  upon  Hendricks'  face. 

"You  wanted  me?"  asked  Hendricks.  His  voice  was 
calm,  quiet,  yet  it  carried  to  the  farthest  fringe  of  the  mob. 
"  Then  won't  you  come  in  ?  "  he  invited  them. 

The  leaders  stared  at  one  another.  This  calmness,  this 
quiet  confidence,  this  pleasant  invitation  to  a  crowd  so 


38  THE  DAY  OF  FAITH 

patently  bent  on  violence,  amazed  them.  Behind  it  must 
lurk  some  trick;  they  could  not  conceive  that  Hendricks 
held  no  fear.  They  had  expected  to  find  a  man  harassed 
by  panic;  had  thought  to  drag  him  from  beneath  a  bed, 
out  from  some  dark  closet  whither  he  had  fled. 

They  were  suddenly  like  schoolboys  standing  before 
their  teacher.  The  leaders  stirred  uneasily,  shifted  their 
weight  from  one  foot  to  another. 

"  Come  in,"  said  Hendricks  again.  As  he  did  so,  he 
stepped  to  one  side,  with  one  hand  gesturing  toward  the 
open  door. 

But  now  that  pause,  that  moment  of  incertitude  which 
brave  confrontation  causes  in  the  mob,  had  passed.  Al- 
ready from  the  rear  came  cries. 

"Grab  him!    Slug  him!" 

Two  of  the  men  of  the  veranda  moved  toward  him. 
Hendricks  lifted  his  hand.  As,  earlier  to-day,  on  the  steps 
of  the  bank,  the  crowd  had  listened,  so  silence  came  again 
upon  this  mob. 

"  My  friends,"  said  Hendricks,  "  what  do  you  want?  " 

"  You,"  came  the  answer  from  a  score  of  voices. 

He  shrugged.     "  I  am  here,"  he  said.     "  Take  me." 

He  moved  a  step  toward  those  nearest,  his  arms  out- 
stretched. On  his  face  was  still  that  pleasant  smile,  the 
smile,  men  felt,  of  a  child. 

The  man  closest  to  him  shrank  back ;  he  could  not  have 
told  why  he  did  so,  for  Bland  Hendricks  was  an  old  man, 
and  he  was  young  and  vigorous. 

"Do  you  know  what  we  want?"  he  muttered.  "Do 
you  know  what  we'r£  going  to  do  to  you?  " 

Slowly  Hendricks  shook  his  head.  "  I  know  what  you 
think  you  want  to  do.  But  you  can't  do  it." 

"We  can't,  hey?"  Before  his  confident  advance,  the 
lust  for  hurt  died  away  in  the  speaker's  heart.  Yet  he 
sneered.  "  Why  can't  we?  Because  we're  perfect,  hey?  " 


THE  DAY  OF  FAITH  ,  39 

Hendricks  nodded.     "  That  is  it,"  he  said. 

And  as  he  spoke,  he  held  out  his  hand.  Had  he  not 
made  that  gesture,  he  might,  as  the  man  later  said,  have 
"  got  away  with  it."  For  some  subtle  mesmerism  affected 
the  man.  He  felt,  for  the  moment,  ashamed,  sick,  dis- 
gusted with  himself.  And  the  mob  reflects  always  its 
leaders ;  had  this  man  turned  away,  the  mob  would  have 
turned  away. 

But  the  man  had  been  wary,  suspicious,  feeling  that 
some  trick  threatened  him.  Hendricks'  courage  was  too 
incredible.  So  now  he  mistook  the  friendly  gesture,  the 
gesture  of  brotherhood,  for  one  of  menace.  He  struck 
down,  as  Kelly  had  struck  down  that  afternoon,  the  ex- 
tended hand. 

The  blow  heated  to  the  boiling  point  his  suddenly  and 
inexplicably  cooled  passions.  It  had  the  same  effect  upon 
the  mob  behind  him. 

"  Slug  him,"  they  cried. 

A  stone  hurtled  through  the  air ;  it  struck  the  wall  be- 
hind Hendricks,  rebounded  and  brought  a  sudden  spurt  of 
blood  from  his  cheek.  Dazed,  he  staggered  back  toward 
the  open  door. 

"  Grab  him,"  cried  some  one. 

And  the  leader  of  the  mob  leaped  forward.  His  clenched 
fist  smashed  against  the  still-smiling  mouth,  and  Hendricks 
went  down.  He  arose  to  find  himself  in  the  midst  of  a 
swaying,  shrieking,  cursing  throng.  Hands  tore  at  his 
clothing,  thudded  against  his  face  and  body.  Conscious, 
he  was  yet  unconscious ;  he  didn't  know  what  was  hap- 
pening, save  that  some  gruesome  nightmare  held  him  in 
its  clutches.  His  thoughts  were  jumbled,  and  what  speech 
came  from  his  lips  was  incoherent. 

Like  one  asleep  they  dragged  him  down  the  veranda 
steps  and  across  the  lawn.  On  the  sidewalk  outside  the 
once  trim  hedge,  that  now  was  crushed  by  the  feet  of 


38  THE  DAY  OF  FAITH 

patently  bent  on  violence,  amazed  them.  Behind  it  must 
lurk  some  trick;  they  could  not  conceive  that  Hendricks 
held  no  fear.  They  had  expected  to  find  a  man  harassed 
by  panic;  had  thought  to  drag  him  from  beneath  a  bed, 
out  from  some  dark  closet  whither  he  had  fled. 

They  were  suddenly  like  schoolboys  standing  before 
their  teacher.  The  leaders  stirred  uneasily,  shifted  their 
weight  from  one  foot  to  another. 

"  Come  in,"  said  Hendricks  again.  As  he  did  so,  he 
stepped  to  one  side,  with  one  hand  gesturing  toward  the 
open  door. 

But  now  that  pause,  that  moment  of  incertitude  which 
brave  confrontation  causes  in  the  mob,  had  passed.  Al- 
ready from  the  rear  came  cries. 

"Grab  him!     Slug  him!" 

Two  of  the  men  of  the  veranda  moved  toward  him. 
Hendricks  lifted  his  hand.  As,  earlier  to-day,  on  the  steps 
of  the  bank,  the  crowd  had  listened,  so  silence  came  again 
upon  this  mob. 

"  My  friends,*5  said  Hendricks,  "  what  do  you  want  ?  '* 

"  You,"  came  the  answer  from  a  score  of  voices. 

He  shrugged.     "  I  am  here,"  he  said.     "  Take  me." 

He  moved  a  step  toward  those  nearest,  his  arms  out- 
stretched. On  his  face  was  still  that  pleasant  smile,  the 
smile,  men  felt,  of  a  child. 

The  man  closest  to  him  shrank  back ;  he  could  not  have 
told  Avhy  he  did  so,  for  Bland  Hendricks  was  an  old  man, 
and  he  was  young  and  vigorous. 

"  Do  you  know  what  we  want?  "  he  muttered.  "  Do 
you  know  what  we'r£  going  to  do  to  you?  " 

Slowly  Hendricks  shook  his  head.  "  I  know  what  you 
think  you  want  to  do.  But  you  can't  do  it." 

"We  can't,  hey?"  Before  his  confident  advance,  the 
lust  for  hurt  died  away  in  the  speaker's  heart.  Yet  he 
sneered.  *'  Why  can't  we?  Because  we're  perfect,  hey?  " 


THE  DAY  OF  FAITH  .  39 

Hendricks  nodded.     "  That  is  it,"  he  said. 

And  as  he  spoke,  he  held  out  his  hand.  Had  he  not 
made  that  gesture,  he  might,  as  the  man  later  said,  have 
"  got  away  with  it."  For  some  subtle  mesmerism  affected 
the  man.  He  felt,  for  the  moment,  ashamed,  sick,  dis- 
gusted with  himself.  And  the  mob  reflects  always  its 
leaders ;  had  this  man  turned  away,  the  mob  would  have 
turned  away. 

But  the  man  had  been  wary,  suspicious,  feeling  that 
some  trick  threatened  him.  Hendricks'  courage  was  too 
incredible.  So  now  he  mistook  the  friendly  gesture,  the 
gesture  of  brotherhood,  for  one  of  menace.  He  struck 
down,  as  Kelly  had  struck  down  that  afternoon,  the  ex- 
tended hand. 

The  blow  heated  to  the  boiling  point  his  suddenly  and 
inexplicably  cooled  passions.  It  had  the  same  effect  upon 
the  mob  behind  him. 

"  Slug  him,"  they  cried. 

A  stone  hurtled  through  the  air;  it  struck  the  wall  be- 
hind Hendricks,  rebounded  and  brought  a  sudden  spurt  of 
blood  from  his  cheek.  Dazed,  he  staggered  back  toward 
the  open  door. 

"  Grab  him,"  cried  some  one. 

And  the  leader  of  the  mob  leaped  forward.  His  clenched 
fist  smashed  against  the  still-smiling  mouth,  and  Hendricks 
went  down.  He  arose  to  find  himself  in  the  midst  of  a 
swaying,  shrieking,  cursing  throng.  Hands  tore  at  his 
clothing,  thudded  against  his  face  and  body.  Conscious, 
he  was  yet  unconscious ;  he  didn't  know  what  was  hap- 
pening, save  that  some  gruesome  nightmare  held  him  in 
its  clutches.  His  thoughts  were  jumbled,  and  what  speech 
came  from  his  lips  was  incoherent. 

Like  one  asleep  they  dragged  him  down  the  veranda 
steps  and  across  the  lawn.  On  the  sidewalk  outside  the 
once  trim  hedge,  that  now  was  crushed  by  the  feet  of 


40  THE  DAY  OF  FAITH 

hundreds,  his  captors  paused.  There,  leaning  from  the 
driver's  seat  of  her  car,  sat  Jane  Maynard. 

She  could  not  tell  whether  or  not  the  bleeding  man 
recognized  her ;  yet,  as  hands  fell  away  from  his  shoulders 
and  for  a  moment  the  mob  let  him  face  the  girl  whonl 
they  believed  he  had  so  grievously  injured,  the  light  of 
understanding  seemed  to  gleam  in  his  eyes.  He  held  out 
his  hands  toward  her.  Yet  the  gesture  was  neither  threat 
nor  plea.  It  seemed,  strangely  enough,  to  be  almost  a 
benediction. 

"  What'll  we  do  with  him,  Miss  Maynard?  "  cried  a  man. 

Over  the  girl's  face  spread  an  expression  strangely 
compounded  of  contempt  and  wrath. 

"  What  you  will,"  she  cried.  She  leaned  forward,  hold- 
ing herself  in  the  car  by  a  grip  of  her  left  hand  upon  the 
wheel.  With  her  right  she  slapped  the  face  of  the  dazed 
man  before  her. 

From  the  mob's  thousand-tongued  throat  came  a  roar 
of  approval.  She  leaned  back,  threw  in  the  clutch  and 
raced  down  the  street  away  from  the  crowd  and  its  victim. 
She  did  not  know  that  distance,  or  time,  could  not  dull 
the  roar  of  that  monstrous  thing,  the  mob.  And  had  she 
known  she  would  not  have  cared.  The  big  gray  eyes 
glinted  hardly  as  she  sped  beneath  electric  road  lamps; 
the  generous  mouth  was  drawn  down  in  what  was  almost 
a  snarl;  the  dimpled  chin  was  thrust  forward,  and  the 
parted  lips  exposed  teeth  that  seemed  cruel. 

Behind  her  men  lifted  the  dazed,  bewildered  thing  that 
had  been  Bland  Hendricks.  They  placed  him  aside  a  rail 
torn  from  a  fence  that  the  mob  had  passed.  They  ele- 
vated him  upon  their  shoulders ;  they  formed  a  singing 
procession  and  marched  toward  the  outskirts  of  the  town. 
Clods  of  earth,  stones,  sailed  through  the  air,  sometimes 
knocking  the  almost  lifeless  thing  from  its  humiliating 
perch.  But  rough  hands  pushed  him  back. 


THE  DAY  OF  FAITH  41 

With  tar,  hot  from  a  cauldron,  they  coated  his  body,  in 
one  incomprehensible  —  considering  what  they  had  not 
been  ashamed  to  do  —  moment  of  mercy  refraining  from 
stripping  him,  leaving  his  torn  clothing  upon  his  beaten 
body.  Over  the  tar  they  cast  feathers  torn  from  a  pillow. 
That  pillow  had  been  intended  to  soothe  and  comfort  tired 
men.  The  rail  had  been  intended  to  prevent  passers-by 
from  falling  into  a  ravine  and  injuring  themselves.  The 
tar  had  been  designed  to  make  a  sidewalk  smooth  for  man. 
The  things  we  create  for  service  we  use  for  destruction. 

Then,  suddenly,  horror  assailed  the  crowd.  This  almost 
lifeless  thing,  absurd,  horrible,  able  to  walk,  able  to  use 
words,  but  walking  blindly,  speaking  unintelligibly,  — 
that  had  been  a  man,  had  been  Bland  Hendricks,  the 
banker,  respected  of  ah1  Leland,  the  friend  of  every  one, 
the  enemy  of  no  one ! 

Not  merely  did  the  mob  tire  of  its  cruel  sport ;  it  sud- 
denly became  ashamed  of  its  brutal  handiwork.  And 
when  a  raging  figure,  uttering  strange  obscenities,  its 
deadly  fear  of  what  it  was  doing  making  it  the  more 
dangerous,  leaped  with  the  abandon  of  desperation  into 
the  crowd,  pushed  from  its  path  the  white  men  who  blocked 
the  way,  no  blows  were  struck.  They  let  him  pass,  let 
him  throw  his  feeble  old  arms  around  the  body  of  the 
master  whom  he  had  left  in  fear  but  to  whom  he  returned, 
despite  his  fear. 

Disintegrated,  furtive,  the  mob  melted  away,  leaving 
old  Isaac  to  lead  —  to  carry  —  toward  home,  a  thing 
that  seemed  like  some  great  awkward  bird. 


CHAPTER  V 

JANE'S  aunt  was  in  the  hall  when  the  girl  returned.  An 
elderly  spinster,  neither  love  nor  hate  had  ever  burned 
fiercely  in  her  heart,  and  so  the  actions  engendered  by 
those  emotions  were  incomprehensible  to  her.  Convention, 
custom,  —  these  were  her  guiding  stars.  And  Jane, 
through  all  these  past  few  days,  had  disdained  their 
guidance. 

For  Jane  had  not  withdrawn  into  solitude  after  her 
father's  funeral.  Instead,  she  had  feverishly  awaited  the 
indictment  of  Montreal  Sammy ;  she  had  openly  professed 
her  hope  that  the  burglar  would  pay  the  penalty  of  his 
entrance  into  the  Maynard  home  in  the  electric  chair. 
And  to-day,  when  she  had  heard  of  Bland  Hendricks' 
intervention  in  behalf  of  the  prisoner,  she  had  herself 
driven  downtown,  been  leading  woman  in  a  scene  at  Hen- 
drick's  bank  that  outraged  her  aunt's  sense  of  propriety. 

Not  that  Miss  Pauline  Anderson,  Jane's  aunt,  had  not 
had  an  affection  for  her  brother-in-law ;  had  not  felt,  with 
the  town  of  Leland,  that  Montreal  Sammy  was  his  mur- 
derer. She  had  understood  Jane's  wrath.  But  she  had 
not  understood,  was  incapable  of  understanding,  the 
depths  of  that  wrath,  the  volcano-like  depths  in  which 
burned  a  flame  that  consumed  all  of  those  reserves  of  man- 
ner which  to  Miss  Anderson  were  fully  as  important  as 
morals. 

There  were  certain  things  which  women  should  leave 
to  men.  Public  expostulation,  whether  that  expostulation 
was  verbal  or  physical,  was  one  of  those  things.  "  If 
thy  neighbor  offend  thee,  cut  his  acquaintance:  but  never 


THE  DAY  OF  FAITH  43 

raise  thy  voice."  This  might  have  been  Miss  Anderson's 
motto. 

She  was  truly  shocked  when  the  servant  had  informed 
her  of  the  forming  of  a  mob  and  its  intention  toward 
Bland  Hendricks.  She  had  even  gone  so  far  as  to  suggest 
that  Jane  might  stop  the  accomplishment  of  that  aim. 
Yet,  had  Jane,  in  acceptance  of  the  suggestion,  announced 
her  intention  of  preventing  the  assault  upon  Hedricks, 
Miss  Anderson  would  have  been  torn  between  the  desire 
to  prevent  an  outrage  and  the  wish  to  keep  her  niece 
away  from  any  unconventional  public  appearance. 

But,  when  Jane  declared  that  she  would  help  the  mob  — * 
she  was  waiting  when  Jane,  grim,  white-faced,  blazing- 
eyed,  returned  to  the  house. 

"  What  did —  they  do?  5>  she  asked  quaveringly. 

Harshly,  cruelly,  Jane's  laugh  sounded. 

"  I  didn't  wait  to  see  the  finish,"  she  said,  "  but  the 
start  was  —  satisfactory." 

She  laughed  again.  This  time  her  voice  broke,  became 
shrill,  changed  from  mirth  into  sudden  sobs.  She 
leaned  against  the  wall  of  the  hall,  clutching  at  her 
throat,  while  her  aunt,  in  frightened  dismay,  stared  at  her. 

The  sobbing  shifted  to  mirth  again.  Loudly,  shatter- 
ing the  silence  that  is  always  deeper  in  the  house  where 
death  has  recently  been,  peal  after  peal  of  shrill  jubila- 
tion burst  from  her  mouth.  And  then  Miss  Anderson 
understood. 

She  had  been  shocked,  horrified;  had  considered  Jane's 
attitude  and  actions  nothing  short  of  wicked;  but  Jane 
was  her  dear  niece,  who  had  undergone  frightful  strain. 
She  put  her  arms  about  the  hysterical  girl,  led  her,  sud- 
denly docile,  to  her  room,  undressed  her,  gave  her  a  drink 
containing  a  stiff  dose  of  bromide,  and,  an  hour  later,  left 
her,  as  she  believed,  sound  asleep. 

But  Jane  was  not  asleep.     The  bromide  had  soothed 


M  THE  DAY  OF  FAITH 

her,  but  her  own  strong  will  had  come  to  her  rescue. 
Hysteria  was  something  to  which  she  had  never  yielded 
before,  and,  recognizing  it,  she  conquered  it. 

She  feigned  sleep  in  order  that  she  might  be  left  alone. 
And  now,  lying  in  her  bed,  staring  up  at  the  ceiling,  faintly 
illumined  by  moonlight  that  came  through  the  opened 
window,  she  surrendered  to  mental  review  of  the  night. 
She  went  farther  back ;  she  reviewed  the  discovery  of  the 
burglar  in  the  room,  its  tragic  consequence.  Oddly 
enough,  she  found  that  she  looked  upon  Montreal  Sammy 
almost  with  indifference.  She  did  not  know,  yet,  that  hate 
is  a  more  selfish  mistress  than  love.  One  may  love  many, 
but  hate  few. 

No ;  Montreal  Sammy  was  a  crawling,  repulsive  thing, 
but  irresponsible.  He  had  been  made  as  he  was.  But 
Bland  Hendricks  was  different.  He  had  been  born  to 
things  to  which  Montreal  Sammy  had  never  even  dimly 
aspired.  All  that  birth,  tradition,  position  and  money 
could  do  for  Bland  Hendricks  they  had  done.  And  these 
things  had  not  been  able  to  give  loyalty  to  a  dead  friend. 
Well,  he  was  paying  disloyalty's  price  now. 

Suddenly  she  was  restless ;  the  impulse  to  hysteria  had 
completely  gone.  She  didn't  want  to  scream,  wished  no 
soothing  companionship,  but  could  not  lie  still.  She 
rose  and  walked  to  the  window.  There,  in  a  chair,  she 
sat,  elbow  upon  the  sill,  chin  cupped  in  her  palm. 

The  moonlight,  the  stillness  outside,  were  calming. 
Slowly  her  lips  curled  in  a  smile  so  sardonic  as  to  change 
her.  For  a  moment  she  had  been  almost  languid,  half- 
drugged  by  the  moonlight,  the  bromide,  and  the  strength 
of  her  will.  But  now  she  saw  again  the  battered,  reeling 
figure  of  Hendricks,  saw  his  outstretched  hands,  felt  her 
palm  tingle  as  she  slapped  that  bleeding  face. 

Without  regret !  So  she  thought.  For  her  feeling  was 
one  of  triumph,  of  revenge  sated.  She  did  not  know  that 


THE  DAY  OF  FAITH  45 

she  was  not  herself,  that  she  had  stilled  hysteria,  save  for 
one  brief  moment,  by  the  exercise  of  an  extraordinary  will- 
power, but  that  its  poison,  the  venom  of  repressed  emotion, 
had  permeated  her  very  being,  and  would  make  its  presence 
felt. 

And  then  she  heard  shuffling  footsteps  on  the  sidewalk 
beyond  the  lawn.  Idly  she  turned  her  head.  For  a  moment 
she  thought  that  she  was  dreaming,  for  through  a  gap 
in  the  hedge  she  saw  a  feathered  object,  around  whose 
middle  was  a  supporting  arm  of  a  man.  But  the  first 
object  —  was  that  a  man? 

She  grasped  at  her  throat,  stifling  an  impulse  to  scream. 
Then,  lips  parted,  eyes  staring,  she  leaned  through  the 
window,  gripping  the  sill  with  fingers  that  clung  as  though 
they  were  holding  upon  life  itself. 

For  she  knew !  This  was  what  she  had  done !  She  was 
of  that  rare  breed  which  never  seeks  to  shirk  its  responsi- 
bilities, which  does  not  say,  "I  didn't  realize;  I  didn't 
intend." 

She  had  done  this !  Not  the  mob,  but  she,  Jane  May- 
nard !  She  didn't  analyze  her  feelings  ;  she  only  knew  that 
where  she  had  intended  hurt,  had  rejoiced  at  seeing  Hen- 
dricks  suffering,  this  grotesquerie  appalled  and  shocked 
her. 

If  the  mob  had  killed  him  she  would  not  —  at  the 
moment  • —  have  cared.  But  to  turn  this  man,  who  was 
honestly  proud,  as  she  knew,  of  his  position  in  the  town, 
into  a  thing  of  mockery !  This  was  different.  Punish- 
ment, yes ;  humiliation  —  No  1  Had  she  known !  To  de- 
grade him;  to  rob  him  of  his  semblance  to  humanity — > 
this  was  to  strike  at  his  soul,  not  merely  at  his  body. 

To  ruin  him  financially,  to  have  him  ostracized,  to  beat 
and  bruise  and  cut  and  torture  his  body  —  these  things 
she  had  been  willing  to  have  done;  aye,  had  wanted  to 


46  THE  DAY  OF  FAITH 

have  done.  But  his  soul  —  that  was  for  God,  not  for 
her,  not  for  the  people  of  Leland! 

And  it  was  the  soul  of  Bland  Hendricks  that  this  mob 
had  struck  at.  She  knew  that;  she  had  the  vision  which 

informed  her.  And  she  had  never  dreamed To  play 

fair.  Ah,  when  she  rejoiced  at  a  thousand  striking  at 
one:  had  that  been  playing  fair?  But  that,  in  the  ecstasy 
of  her  hate,  was  something  that  had  not  bothered  her  at 
the  time,  that  would  not  bother  her  now. 

That  they  would  strike  him  again,  that  they  would  lead 
him  around,  a  victim  of  their  cruel  amusement;  she  had 
known  it,  wished  it  to  happen.  But  she  had  not  visualized 
what  riding  on  a  rail,  what  tarring  and  feathering  meant. 
Now  she  saw  it  in  all  its  deadly,  filthy  brutality.  To  rob 
a  man  of  his  likeness  to  his  brothers.  Oh,  it  could  be 
washed  away  from  the  body,  but  —  the  soul !  Could  the 
stain  of  that  tar,  the  fluffiness  of  those  feathers  —  could 
they  be  wiped  from  the  soul  of  him? 

To  make  him  a  subject  of  violence  —  yes.  To  make 
him  a  subject  of  shameful  ridicule  —  no!  This  was  her 
chaotic  thought  as  she  ran,  in  slippered  feet  and  dressing 
gown,  down  the  stairs.  She  did  not  know  that  she  had 
been  insane,  that  reason  was  slowly  seeping  its  way  back 
into  her  mind  and  soul.  She  thought  that  there  were 
degrees  in  her  hatred,  that  she  rebelled  because  the  mob 
had  gone  one  degree  farther  than  she  had  expected. 

Outside,  by  the  gap  in  the  hedge,  the  victim  and  his 
rescuer  had  paused.  Wrath,  self-contempt,  had  endowed 
the  shriveled  arms  of  old  Isaac  with  an  abnormal  strength. 
Fear,  no  longer  for  himself,  had  inspired  him  to  tre- 
mendous effort  when  wrath  and  self-contempt  had  been 
forgotten.  For  suddenly  Isaac  had  realized  that  his 
master  was  no  longer  of  this  world. 

Life  still  animated  faintly  the  limbs  of  Bland  Hend- 
ricks. His  heart  beat,  his  feet  moved  staggeringly,  and 


THE  DAY  OF  FAITH  47 

from  his  lips  came  incoherences.  But  these  twain  had 
been  gentle  master  and  adoring  servant  for  more  than  six 
decades.  During  their  companionship  infants  had  grown 
to  manhood,  borne  sons  and  daughters,  and  dandled  grand- 
children upon  their  knees.  They  knew  each  other,  their 
strength  and  their  weakness.  And  even  as  Jane  Maynard 
had  known  when  life  left  her  father,  so  did  old  Isaac  know 
that  life  was  about  to  leave  his  master.  Indeed,  the  old 
Negro  knew  that  what  life  remained  in  Hendricks  now 
was  like  the  smoke  that  lingers  after  the  flames  have  been 
extinguished. 

And  grief  tore  at  the  heart  of  Isaac.  He  would  have 
died  himself  to  save  his  master  —  now.  But  a  few  hours 
ago,  almost  simultaneously  with  his  boast  that  he  would 
die  before  he  would  desert  his  master,  panic  had  over- 
whelmed him,  and  he  had  fled;  fled  shamefully,  to  let  his 
master  meet  the  mob,  be  slain  by  them. 

He  had  returned,  but  —  he  had  gone !  In  the  midst 
of  a  grove  not  far  from  the  Hendricks  home,  Isaac  had 
wrestled  with  his  fear  and  he  had  conquered.  Fear  was 
still  in  liim,  but  he  disobeyed  its  dictates.  He  had  come, 
braving  the  white  man's  mob,  to  the  rescue  of  his  master. 
He  had  redeemed  himself  in  the  eyes  of  all  those  who  to- 
night knew  of  the  rescue,  or  to-morrow  would  hear  of  it. 
In  the  eyes  of  God,  one  feels  safe  in  asserting,  he  had  re- 
deemed himself.  But  in  his  own  eyes  he  was  recreant. 

And  now,  his  false  strength  dissipated,  knowing  that 
the  man  whom  he  adored  was  on  the  verge  of  death,  Isaac 
staggered  and  fell.  Together,  the  weary  black  man  and 
the  grotesque  victim  of  the  mob,  they  pitched  through 
the  gap  in  the  hedge  upon  the  grass  of  the  Maynard  lawn. 

And  to  them  Jane  came.  She  bent,  conquering  re- 
pugnance at  the  dreadful  sight,  over  the  body  of  Hend- 
ricks. From  her  window  he  had  looked  grotesque,  but 
here,  close  at  hand,  he  looked  more  than  that.  Like  some- 


48  THE  DAY  OF  FAITH 

thing  obscene,  unclean,  he  looked,  as  he  lay  upon  the 
grass. 

Her  handiwork! 

Her  cry  for  help  made  Isaac,  who  had  not  heard  her 
grass-silenced  footsteps,  lift  his  head.  He  recognized  her, 
and  into  his  eyes,  dulled  by  emotion,  by  exhaustion,  crept 
the  glare  of  the  savage.  But  cunning  kept  him  silent, 
stopped  the  hand  that  slipped  stealthily  toward  his  jacket 
pocket.  For  while  he  knew  that  death  was  just  around 
the  corner  from  Hendricks,  he  might  be  wrong.  There 
might  be  hope 

But  he  knew  that  he  had  hoped  vainly  by  the  time  that 
they  were  in  the  house.  For,  somewhere  on  the  way  across 
the  lawn,  whither  he  was  borne  by  the  Maynard  butler 
and  chauffeur,  Bland  Hendricks  died. 

Hours  later,  when  the  bruised,  maltreated  form  had  been 
laid  in  the  drawing  room  of  the  Hendricks  home,  where 
later  on  men  would  shamefacedly  come  to  look  with  horror 
on  the  deed  that  had  been  theirs,  to  repent,  as  men  always 
do,  the  frightful  deeds  that  they  have  done,  old  Isaac 
tiptoed  out  of  the  house. 

He  was  just  an  old  Negro,  stupid  by  nature  and  dulled 
of  intellect  by  many  years.  But  he  knew  enough  of 
humankind  to  know  that  those  who  had  been  of  the  mob, 
and  those  who  by  their  tacit  consent  had  been  spiritually 
of  it,  though  physically  far  away,  would  mourn,  in 
sanity,  what  had  been  done  in  insanity. 

But  mourning  would  not  bring  back  the  master  whom 
he  had  loved.  Nothing  could  do  that.  Therefore,  mourn- 
ing was  a  waste  of  time.  But  vengeance  —  that  was 
something  else !  And  that  he  would  exact.  And  there  was 
only  one  person  from  whom  he  would  exact  it  —  Jane 
Maynard. 

He  knew  the  causes  that  had  led  to  the  formation  of 
the  mob.  That  in  itself  would  have  been  enough  to  de- 


THE  DAY  OF  FAITH  49 

nominate  her  as  the  one  responsible  for  what  had  hap- 
pened to-night.  But  there  was  more  than  that.  From 
the  overheard  words  that  fell  from  the  lips  of  those  who 
composed  Hendricks  for  his  last  rest,  he  learned  that  Jane 
Maynard  had  been  present  at  Hendricks*  capture,  that 
she  had  struck  him. 

He  couldn't  kill  them  all,  unfortunately.  But  the 
Maynard  girl !  It  didn't  matter  that  at  the  last  she  had 
come  to  his  aid,  had  called  her  servants  to  bear  his  master 
into  her  own  home,  that  she  had  summoned  a  physician. 
His  thick  lips  slid  away  from  his  gleaming  teeth  until 
the  red  gums  showed  as  he  thought  of  Jane  Maynard. 

For  the  jungle  was  in  his  soul  now.  A  life  for  a  life, 
and  his  only  regret  would  be  that  he  could  not  take  a 
score  of  lives  for  that  precious  one  that  had  gone. 

No  longer  did  he  fear  the  white  man.  Why  hadn't  he 
known  that  life  without  his  master  was  but  a  mockery? 
Then  he  would  not  have  yielded  to  panic,  would  have 

stayed  by  Hendricks'  side,  and  perhaps But  what 

might  have  been  was  now  inconsequential.  He'd  kill  her, 
then  kill  himself. 

But  he  was  just  a  shambling,  weak,  aged  darky  when 
he  rang,  early  in  the  forenoon,  the  bell  at  the  Maynard 
front  door.  He  touched  his  cap  ingratiatingly  when  a 
maid  opened  the  door. 

"  Like  tuh  see  Miss  Maynard,  please,  ma'am,"  he  said. 

The  maid  was  haggard,  nervous.  She  didn't  recog- 
nize old  Isaac.  She  only  knew  that  a  shabby,  furtive- 
seeming  old  Negro  was  asking  to  see  her  mistress,  who 
was  now  upstairs,  fighting  against  an  hysteria  that  ad- 
vanced like  a  wave,  conquered  her,  receded,  then  almost 
mockingly  advanced  again  to  submerge  her. 

"  Miss  Maynard  is  ill,"  she  said. 

"  Yes,  I  reckon  so,"  said  Isaac.  "Please,  ma'am,  I'd 
like  tuh  see  her." 


50  THE  DAY  OF  FAITH 

"  She's  ill,"  said  the  maid.     "  Don't  you  understand?  " 

From  Isaac's  lips  came  a  chuckle,  —  senile,  quavering. 

"  Yas'm,  I  understands  all  right.  But  I'm  goin'  see 
her." 

The  maid  stared,  then  started  to  close  the  door.  And 
the  bent  old  body  suddenly  straightened;  seemed,  to  the 
maid's  alarmed  eyes,  to  grow  taller,  broader.  For  he 
stepped  inside  the  door  and  with  a  sweep  of  a  suddenly 
powerful  hand  hurled  her  against  the  wall.  His  lips 
parted  in  the  sort  of  snarl  that  his  cannibal  ancestors 
wore. 

"Wheah  is  she,  white  woman?     Answeh  me,"  he  cried. 

The  maid  cowered  before  him.  All  that  she  had  ever 
heard  of  maddened  Negroes  came  back  to  her  mind;  she 
lifted  a  shaking  hand  and  pointed  toward  the  stairs. 

He  waited  for  no  more,  but  ran  down  the  hall  and  took 
the  stairs  three  at  a  time.  All  of  his  age,  all  of  his  de- 
crepitudes, fell  away  from  him.  He  was  a  savage,  a 
stalker  of  the  jungle,  and  his  prey  was  almost  in  sight. 

Three  rooms  he  invaded,  and  in  the  third  he  found 
Jane  Maynard.  The  nurse,  seated  by  the  bedside  of  her 
delirious  patient,  was  holding  the  girl's  hand,  was  strok- 
ing her  forehead,  was  talking  to  her  in  a  soothing  under- 
tone. This  was  all  that  she  could  do.  The  doctor  sum- 
moned to  attend  Hendricks  had  turned  his  attention  to 
Jane.  But  medicine  could  do  little  or  nothing.  Buoyed 
up  by  a  fictitious  strength  —  a  strength  that  had  been 
neither  of  the  mind  nor  of  the  body,  but  of  the  emotions 
—  the  girl's  nerve  force  had  fed,  for  a  week,  upon  itself, 
until  now  it  was  consumed.  She  had  collapsed  when 
Hendricks'  body  had  been  removed. 

To  her  aunt  the  doctor  had  shrugged  his  shoulders. 
"  I'd  be  lying  if  I  said  that  I  could  tell,"  he  had  said  to 
her.  "  It's  been  inevitable.  She's  been  acting  abnor- 


THE  DAY  OF  FAITH  51 

mally  and  —  she  may  be  insane  when  it's  all  over ;  she 
may  be  sane.     At  present  —  rest." 

The  nurse  turned  at  the  sound  of  Isaac's  entrance. 
Jane  had  fallen  asleep  at  last,  and  from  sleep  only  could 
health,  restoration  of  sanity,  come.  So  the  nurse  lifted 
a  finger  to  her  lips,  while  her  other  hand  moved  in  a  ges- 
ture of  peremptory  dismissal. 

Isaac  laughed.  His  mirth,  staccato,  harsh,  awoke  the 
sleeping  girl.  She  saw  him  at  once ;  she  sat  up  in  bed. 
And  then,  as  Isaac  drew  a  revolver  from  his  pocket,  it 
was  she  who  placed  a  comforting  hand  upon  the  nurse's 
shoulder.  Her  eyes  were  sane,  calm,  and  they  met  those 
of  the  crazed  Negro  squarely. 

"  Put  it  away,  Isaac,"  she  said  gently. 

Again  the  black  man  laughed.  "  Put  it  away,  huh? 
You  says  tuh  put  it  away,  eh?  Heh-heh!  Makin'  jokes 
wid  old  Isaac,  eh?  Put  it  away?  Yas,  I'll  put  it  away, 
Miss  Maynard,  but  not  till  I've  used  it,  ma'am."  His 
eyes  rolled.  He  had,  like  all  savages,  be  they  black  men 
descended  from  the  jungle  or  white  men  who  travel  in 
mobs,  to  work  himself  up  to  an  emotional  pitch  of  high 
excitement  before  the  deed  that  he  intended  could  be  done. 

"Put  it  away,  you  says.  Huh?  I  reckon  you  think 
I  come  up  heah  for  nothin',  Miss  Maynard,  huh  ?  Reckon 
you  think  as  how  I  ain't  goin'  get  square  for  what  they 
did  to  Mist'  Hendricks,  huh?  You  done  it,  Miss  May- 
nard !  " 

"  I  know  it,"  she  replied. 

Her  answered  amazed  him.  It  seemed  to  make  him  un- 
certain. He  avoided  her  eyes  while  he  cocked  the  re- 
volver. 

"Then  why  shouldn't  I  use  this  heah  gun?"  he  de- 
manded. 

"  Why,"  she  said,  "  use  it  if  —  if " 


52  THE  DAY  OF  FAITH 

"  If  what  ?  "  he  demanded.  His  finger  was  on  the 
trigger. 

From  far  away,  as  though  it  were  another's  voice, 
phrasing  speech  which  was  incomprehensible  to  her,  Jane 
heard  herself  reply, 

"  If  you  can." 

"Why  can't  I?"  asked  the  Negro.  His  voice  was, 
oddly,  almost  a  whimper. 

Once  again  it  was  as  though  another's  voice  issued  from 
her  throat,  using  speech  at  which  she  would  have  laughed 
a  day  ago. 

"  Because  I  see  you,  Isaac,  as  perfect  — 

She  stopped  short.  She  laughed,  scornfully,  contemp- 
tuously, self-angered.  She  threw  her  arms  wide,  expos- 
ing her  throat,  her  rounded  bosom  to  the  bullet. 

But  the  revolver  clattered  to  the  floor.  And  Isaac 
said: 

"  Yas'm,  yas,  Miss  Maynard." 

And  he  shuffled  from  the  room. 


CHAPTER  VI 

SINCE  man's  fancy  first  turned  toward  philosophical 
speculation  he  has  found  no  puzzle  greater  than,  "  What 
is  physical?"  Or  the  correlated  questions,  "What  is 
mental?  What  is  spiritual?" 

Man  enters  upon  a  physical  debauch.  Are  his  conse- 
quent sufferings  of  the  body,  or  of  the  soul,  or  of  the 
mind?  He  commits  a  crime.  Is  it  his  spirit  that  en- 
dures torment?  Then  why,  so  often,  is  his  health 
wracked,  does  his  mind  fail?  He  overworks;  his  mind 
breaks  down,  but  his  body  also  suffers  disease. 

Are  all  three,  then,  one?     Or  —  is  one  all  three? 

Leland,  on  the  morning  following  the  attack  upon 
Bland  Hendricks,  consciously  asked  itself  none  of  these 
questions.  It  attributed  its  reaction  to  no  specific  cause ; 
it  only  knew  that  its  collective  body  felt  bruised;  that 
its  collective  soul  was  horrified;  that  its  collective  mind 
was  dazed. 

For  reaction  follows  surely  upon  every  action.  Only 
a  comparatively  small  percentage  of  Leland's  population 
had  taken  actual  overt  part  in  the  outrage.  But  the 
rest,  those  of  adult  age,  had  known  of  it,  had  winked 
at  it. 

But  that  Bland  Hendricks  should  have  been  kitted! 
Kelly,  his  Irish  eyes  tear-sodden,  over  and  over  again  as- 
sured himself  that  he  had  had  no  idea  that  his  angry 
words  outside  the  bank  would  lead  to  that . 

Jackson,  sworn  upholder  of  the  laws,  again  and  again 
told  his  accusing  soul  that  had  he  dreamed  of  the  re- 
sults of  the  mob's  action,  he  would  have  done  something. 


54  THE  DAY  OF  FAITH 

Rosenberg,  Capelli,  and  those  scores  of  others  who  had 
been  friends  of  the  dead  man  —  their  hatred  had  turned 
to  remorse.  Over  the  town,  by  noon,  had  settled  a  fog, 
not  discernible  to  the  eye,  but  visible  to  the  heart,  to  the 
mind. 

Why?  That  was  the  question  that  the  town  asked 
itself.  The  answer  had  been  easy  yesterday.  Hendricks 
had  interfered  with  the  course  of  justice.  It  had  come 
trippingly  from  every  tongue.  But  to-day  men  faltered 
over  the  sentence.  It  is  easy  to  judge  when  passion 
sways,  but  when  one  is  cool,  calm,  justice  is  no  exact 
thing,  easily  pronounced,  simply  administered;  it  is  com- 
plicated, vague.  For  one  moment  Leland  knew  a  great 
truth:  Justice  is  infinite  and  cannot  be  administered  by 
mortals.  Of  course  Leland  forgot  it ;  forgot  that  it  had 
ever  known  it ;  but  for  the  moment  it  knew,  and,  know- 
ing, suffered  the  bitterest  anguish  of  remorse. 

But  after  that  moment  of  blank  horror,  when  their 
souls  felt  naked,  custom  reasserted  itself;  that  thing 
called  local  pride  demanded  a  hearing.  Already  the  news 
had  been  telegraphed  to  the  outer  world.  Leland,  a  staid 
and  settled  community  that  held  its  good  name  precious, 
would  be  to  the  world  a  place  where  the  mob  spirit  ruled, 
where  the  laws  were  laughed  at,  where  —  and  this  became 
suddenly  vital  —  capital  was  not  safe. 

For  if  mobs  override  the  law,  what  assurance  has  the 
investor  that  his  investment  is  safe?  If  a  mob  can  as- 
sault and  murder,  why  can  it  not  pillage  and  burn?  Pas- 
sion had  ruled  last  night;  the  spirit  ruled  briefly  in  the 
morning;  but  by  afternoon  the  god  of  common  sense 
was  enthroned  once  more. 

Of  course  Leland  must  be  justified  in  the  outside  world. 
But  the  justification  must  be  very  careful  not  to  involve 
in  unpleasant  court  proceedings  the  notables  of  Leland. 
If  it  were  not  that  State  officials  sometimes  take  cogniz- 


THE  DAY  OF  FAITH  55 

ance  of  a  municipality's  failure  to  enforce  the  law,  Leland 
might  have  let  the  matter  drop.  Common  sense  inclined 
to  that  view.  So  —  a  whitewashing !  That  was  what 
Leland  decided  upon,  although  the  word  was  used  by 
none  of  the  town  officials,  was  not  used  in  private  conver- 
sation even. 

So,  quite  solemnly,  the  town  officials,  on  the  afternoon 
following  the  killing  of  Hendricks,  assembled  together 
and  denounced  the  action  of  the  mob.  The  chief  of  po- 
lice was  summoned  before  the  solemn  conclave.  He 
proved,  to  the  expressed  satisfaction  of  the  officials,  that 
he  and  his  police  force  had  tried  to  prevent  the  mob  from 
forming,  that  he  himself  had  been  overpowered.  Minor 
police  officers  upheld  his  testimony. 

And  among  all  those  numerous  persons  who  appeared 
before  the  investigating  body  there  was  not  one  who  had 
recognized  any  of  the  members  of  the  mob.  In  all  Leland 
not  one  individual,  apparently,  knew  the  name  of  another 
individual  who  had  been  in  the  mob.  And  so,  having 
played  the  solemn  farce  to  its  logical  end,  the  town  officials 
passed  a  resolution  which  scathingly  condemned  the  mob 
and  its  action,  and  which  lamented  the  loss  to  the  com- 
munity of  one  of  its  leading  citizens. 

Leland  had  justified  itself  to  the  outside  world.  Its 
conscience  felt  better ;  it  thought  that  by  turning  out  for 
Hendricks'  funeral,  by  listening  approvingly  to  a  eulo- 
gistic sermon  over  the  body  of  the  dead  man,  it  had  more 
or  less  redeemed  itself.  Perhaps  it  had. 

And  the  jury  that  a  few  days  later  found  Montreal 
Sammy  guilty  of  first  degree  burglary,  and  the  judge 
who,  under  a  provision  of  the  criminal  statutes,  was  em- 
powered to  deal  severely  with  habitual  criminals,  felt  quite 
righteous  as  he  sentenced  Montreal  Sammy  to  spend  the 
rest  of  his  life  in  prison.  Young  Jackson  rubbed  his 
hands  together  as  he  heard  the  judge's  words.  All  of 


56  THE  DAY  OF  FAITH 

Leland  felt  that  an  affair  of  most  unpleasant  potentiality 
had  been  successfully  glossed  over.  And  when  the  town 
learned  that  Jane  Maynard's  home  was  being  closed,  and 
that  Jane  herself  was  bound  for  some  sort  of  health  resort, 
the  town  was  pleased,  although  it  didn't  say  so.  On  the 
contrary,  it  expressed  the  deepest  regret  for  Jane. 

Still,  in  its  heart,  Leland  was  glad  that  she  was  going 
away,  if  only  temporarily.  For  the  whole  town  knew 
what  she  had  done  on  the  night  of  the  killing  of  Bland 
Hendricks;  knew  that  she  had  struck  the  victim  of  the 
mob  —  Leland  could  not  at  once  forget  that  it  had  loved 
Jane  Maynard,  but  —  she,  really,  had  inflamed  the  towns- 
people by  her  action  in  the  bank.  It  was  as  well  that  she 
should  go. 

Jane  knew  nothing  of  all  this.  For  when  old  Isaac  had 
feebly  dragged  himself  from  her  room,  all  the  false 
strength  of  insane  anger  gone  from  his  limbs,  he  had  left 
behind  him  an  unconscious  girl. 

She  had  undergone  too  much.  This  last  scene  with 
Isaac  had  been  the  final,  culminating  stroke  against  her 
reason.  It  tottered,  swung  down  into  the  memoryless 
abyss  that  separates  life  from  death.  And  there  it 
stayed. 

The  doctors,  the  specialists  who  were  summoned  by 
Miss  Anderson,  could  only  shake  their  heads.  They 
didn't  know,  and  some  of  them  were  frank  enough  to  say 
so. 

Rest,  perfect  quiet,  —  these  might  restore  the  light  to 
the  dull  eye,  coherent  speech  to  the  tongue  that  now  fal- 
tered over  puerilities.  For  when  consciousness  had  come 
again  to  Jane  it  was  not  the  consciousness  of  the  adult; 
it  was  the  consciousness  of  the  —  almost  —  imbecile. 

She  recognized  no  one;  she  knew  nothing;  as  any  babe 
must  be  taught,  or  must  learn  through  constant  failure 
the  simplest  acts  of  coordination  of  body  and  brain,  so 


THE  DAY  OF  FAITH  57 

Jane  Maynard  learned  them  all  over  again.  And  so  she 
had  been  taken  to  Berkshire,  that  semi-hotel,  semi-hos- 
pital, which  stands  upon  a  huge,  rounded  hill  and  over- 
looks the  Hudson. 

There,  always  attended  by  a  nurse,  she  fought,  not 
knowing  that  she  did,  for  health  and  sanity.  The  first 
came  back  swiftly.  Too  sturdy,  despite  her  slim  round- 
ness, for  illness  to  claim  her  long,  was  Jane  Maynard. 
Behind  her  was  an  ancestry  that  had  lived  simply.  It 
had  given  her  a  sound  physique.  And  her  own  life  had 
been  filled  with  exercise. 

Swiftly  her  cheeks  regained  their  color;  into  her  gray 
eyes,  gentler  now  than  ever,  came  the  light  of  a  zestful 
appreciation  of  fresh  air,  of  sleep,  of  good  food.  Her 
step  was  as  light  as  that  of  any  animal;  her  movements 
as  sure,  as  purposeful,  when  she  rode  or  played  tennis 
or  golf  upon  the  private  courts  or  links  of  Berkshire  as 
they  had  been  in  the  days  when  she  and  her  father  had 
chummed  together. 

But  her  mind,  —  that  was  a  vacancy.  To  one  who 
saw  her  guide  her  horse  with  sure  and  steady  hand,  or 
saw  her  essay,  with  delicate  touch,  the  trickiest  of  putts, 
her  mental  incapacity  was  not  credible.  Only  when  she 
spoke  was  one  aware  that  nothing  of  the  spiritual  or  men- 
tal animated  this  beautiful  body ;  that  her  mind  was  dead. 

Yet  to  Miss  Anderson,  and  to  those  other  relatives 
from  New  York,  her  condition  gave  hope.  As  a  healthy 
mind  so  often  means  a  healthy  body,  so  a  healthy  body, 
they  reasoned,  must  mean  a  healthy  mind.  Therefore 
it  was  only  a  question  of  time  and  patience;  soon  Jane 
would  be  all  right  again. 

As  a  matter  of  cold  fact,  it  was  just  as  well  that  her 
condition  was  as  it  was.  For,  necessarily,  the  newspapers 
of  New  York  had  contained  accounts  of  the  treatment 
of  Bland  Hendricks.  Although  Jane's  presence  in  the 


58  THE  DAY  OF  FAITH 

mob  had  not  seeped  beyond  the  precincts  of  Leland,  still 
the  great  world  knew  that  her  resentment  at  Bland  Hen- 
dricks  had  led,  directly  or  indirectly,  to  the  mob's  action. 
Had  she  continued  her  normal  way  of  living,  the  great 
world  might  have  looked  at  her  askance. 

But  by  the  time  that  Jane  should  be  recovered  the  great 
world  would  have  forgotten  all  about  the  incidents  at 
Leland;  it  would  only  know  that,  owing  to  the  shock  of 
her  father's  death,  Miss  Maynard  had  been  ill ;  she  could 
take  up  that  proper  place  in  society  to  which  she  had 
been  destined.  Yes,  all  in  all,  it  was  as  well  that  Jane 
was,  for  the  present,  where  she  was. 

Only  one  error  did  they,  the  relatives  and  friends  and 
doctors,  make  in  their  diagnosis.  Jane's  mind  was  not 
ill;  it  was  asleep.  A  great  shock,  a  cumulative  series  of 
shocks,  had  made  her  unconscious.  Her  body  had  awak- 
ened, but  her  mind  still  slumbered. 

Amenable  to  the  easy  discipline  of  the  institution, 
sweet-tempered,  amiable,  she  won  for  herself  an  affec- 
tion from  the  attaches  of  the  hospital  equal  to  that  re- 
gard in  which  she  had  been  held  by  Leland.  And  because 
her  health  justified  it,  it  soon  came  to  pass  that  an  at- 
tendant was  not  always  at  her  elbow.  She  could  be 
trusted  to  play  a  round  of  golf  with  one  of  those  pa- 
tients whose  physical  afflictions  had  sent  her  to  Berkshire, 
and  whose  mind  was  unruffled. 

Thus,  on  a  day  some  months  after  Montreal  Sammy 
had  taken  up  his  permanent  residence  in  Sing  Sing,  Jane 
was  playing  a  round  of  golf  with  a  woman  patient.  The 
patient,  a  Mrs.  Blaisdell,  became  tired.  At  the  four- 
teenth hole  she  decided  to  stop  playing  and  take  a  short 
cut  back  to  Berkshire. 

Jane  mildly  protested.  If  she  could  continue  her  pres- 
ent pace,  she  might  break  ninety.  And  when  her  com- 
panion offered  to  wait  for  her  at  the  last  hole,  Jane  con- 


THE  DAY  OF  FAITH  59 

tinued  by  herself.  She  kept  up  the  pace  for  the  next  two 
holes,  and  on  the  seventeenth  she  laid  her  ball  dead  with 
her  second  shot.  She  lacked  that  opportunity  for  com- 
parison which  is  the  delight  of  the  average  golfer.  For 
she  could  not  remember  her  duffer  days.  Oddly,  too, 
she  lacked  curiosity.  Her  mind  was  capable  of  no  real 
processes.  That  she  had  played  under  a  hundred  on  the 
first  day  that  she  had  gone  around  those  links  gave  her 
no  wonderment.  The  past  was  not  merely  sealed  to  her ; 
it  had  no  existence. 

Nevertheless  she  had  not  before  played  this  hole  in 
par.  To-day  it  was  a  mere  matter  of  a  six-inch  putt, 
and  she  was  smiling  as  she  bent  over  and  gently  brought 
the  head  of  her  putter  toward  the  ball.  And  then  startled, 
frightened  by  the  sudden  clamor  of  a  brass-throated  bell, 
she  missed  the  putt,  sent  the  little  ball  a  good  six  feet  be- 
yond the  cup. 

She  stood  erect,  her  body  shaking.  The  great  bell 
sounded  again.  She  wondered  where  it  came  from,  what 
it  meant,  that  brazen  sound  that  seemed  to  hint  of  things 
incomprehensible  to  her.  Then,  dismissing  the  matter, 
she  walked  across  the  putting  green.  Despite  the  re- 
peated clangor,  she  sank  the  six-foot  putt,  and  strode 
away  to  the  last  tee. 

Another  person  shook  with  alarm  as  the  note  of  the 
bell  sounded.  For  Montreal  Sammy  had  hoped  that  his 
escape  from  Sing  Sing  would  not  become  known  until 
dark.  In  darkness  there  was  hope  for  him.  He  had 
managed  to  elude  the  guards ;  had  managed  to  secrete 
himself  aboard  a  motor  truck  leaving  the  prison  pre- 
cincts ;  had,  unobserved,  dropped  from  the  truck  half  a 
mile  from  the  prison ;  had,  by  the  greatest  good  luck  in  the 
world,  found  not  merely  an  empty  house,  but  clothing  in- 
side it  which  fitted  him  fairly  well;  and  had  further,  by 


80  THE  DAY  OF  FAITH 

straining  every  muscle  in  his  body,  put,  in  one  hour,  sev- 
eral miles  between  himself  and  the  walls  of  Sing  Sing. 

There  was  no  reason  why  his  absence  should  have  been 
discovered  before  half-past  five.  And  then  he  had  hoped 
for  another  hour  while  the  guards  made  certain  that  he 
was  not  somewhere  within  the  walls.  Dusk  would  have 
come  by  then.  Now  it  was,  he  supposed,  hardly  four 
o'clock.  Probably  his  cell  mate,  who  had  not  dared  risk 
the  effort  of  escape,  who,  indeed,  having  only  a  few  months 
more  to  serve  would  have  been  foolish  to  attempt  it,  had 
"squealed"  on  him.  Montreal  Sammy  cursed  bitterly  as 
this  thought  came  upon  him. 

For  that  warning  bell  meant  not  merely  that  the  prison 
authorities  were  searching  for  him;  it  also  meant  that 
every  policeman,  every  rural  constable,  every  motorcycle- 
equipped  member  of  the  State  police  who  heard  it  would 
be  on  the  lookout  for  him. 

He  had  been  walking  along  a  road,  secure  in  the  dis- 
guise of  his  stolen  clothes  and  the  hat  pulled  well  down 
over  his  shaven  skull,  when  the  bell  had  sounded.  But 
now  every  pedestrian  was  subject  to  suspicion.  He  leaped 
a  wall  and  found  himself  in  a  thicket  of  woods.  Cau- 
tiously he  pushed  his  way  through  it ;  it  was  only  a  few 
yards  wide,  and  suddenly  he  found  himself  overlooking  a 
golf  course.  Beyond  a  stretch  of  green  he  could  see 
woods  again. 

His  cell  mate,  in  whom  he  had  been  compelled  to  con- 
fide his  intention  to  attempt  escape,  knew  the  country 
hereabouts  extremely  well.  Night  after  night,  when  the 
lights  were  out,  he  had  drilled  Montreal  Sammy  in  the 
geography  and  topography  of  the  neighborhood.  And 
so  the  convict  knew  that  he  was  looking  across  the  pri- 
vate links  of  the  Berkshire.  He  also  knew  that  the  woods 
beyond  stretched  a  mile  or  more,  and  would  afford  a  way 


THE  DAY  OF  FAITH  61 

of  escape.  For  in  the  middle  of  them  was  a  railroad 
track ;  he  might  swing  aboard  a  freight  train. 

Silently  he  cursed  the  woman  who  was  playing.  Until 
she  passed  he  would  not  dare  cross  the  open  space  of 
green.  And  she  was  so  deliberate. 

He  ducked  his  head  suddenly.  For  Jane  hooked  a 
mashie  shot.  Her  chance  to  break  ninety  still  existed 
when  she  had  sunk  the  six-foot  putt,  but  the  missing  of 
the  six-inch  shot  had  unsteadied  her.  So  now  her  chance 
went  glimmering. 

Still,  she  would  play  it  out.  And  so  she  approached 
the  thicket  of  woods  toward  which  she  had  sent  the  ball, 
and  in  which  crouched  Montreal  Sammy. 

He  heard  her  laugh  of  pleased  surprise  as  she  found 
the  ball  lying  in  the  grass,  a  good  yard  away  from  the 
nearest  tree.  For  it  had  struck  a  branch,  been  deflected, 
and  then  rebounded  on  to  the  fairway.  The  chance  to 
break  ninety  still  existed! 

And  then,  as  she  took  her  stance  for  the  mashie  shot 
that  she  hoped  would  land  her  ball  upon  the  green,  Mon- 
treal Sammy  recognized  her.  And  he  could  not  forbear 
a  start  of  surprise. 

The  girl,  poised  for  the  stroke,  heard  his  slight  move- 
ment. She  thought  it  was  a  bird  or  some  small  animal 
of  the  underbrush.  But  as  she  straightened  up  and 
turned  an  idly  inquiring  glance  toward  the  trees,  her 
eyes  lighted  upon  the  hand  of  Montreal  Sammy,  clutch- 
ing, in  his  effort  for  silence,  at  the  trunk  of  a  sapling. 

She  looked  along  that  hand,  the  bony,  hairy  wrist,  the 
sleeve,  the  shoulder.  And  she  saw  the  face  of  the  fright- 
ened convict.  Her  mind  had  not  been  ill;  it  had  been 
asleep.  And  now,  instantly,  it  awakened.  She  took  a 
stride  forward,  toward  the  trees,  and  the  convict  leaped 
to  his  feet. 

But  somehow  he  did  not  dare  to  run.     He  knew  that 


62  THE  DAY  OF  FAITH 

the  game  was  up.  He  knew  of  other  men  who  had  tried 
to  escape  from  Sing  Sing.  Unless  they  reached  a  city 
without  recognition,  they  were  always  captured.  The 
countryside  is  the  most  difficult  place  in  the  world  in 
which  to  hide.  For  men  must  eat,  and  food  cannot  be 
procured  in  the  country  without  arousing  curiosity.  In 
the  city  no  one  notices ;  but  in  the  country  each  stranger 
is  an  object  of  acutest  interest. 

The  game  was  up.  Vaguely  Sammy  wondered  that 
Jane  Maynard  should  be  the  one  to  end  it  for  him.  But 
it  was  just  his  luck. 

Her  recognition  was  as  quick  as  his.  And  not  only  did 
she  know  him,  but  all  those  memories  that  his  face  would 
have  evoked  had  she  been  normal,  his  face  evoked  now. 
In  one  kaleidoscopic  second  she  reviewed  everything  from 
the  moment  of  the  burglar's  entrance  into  her  father's 
sick  room  to  the  departure  of  old  Isaac  from  her  own 
bedroom. 

Instinctively  she  had  lifted  the  mashie  above  her  head 
in  a  motion  of  menace.  As  swiftly  as  it  had  gone  up,  so 
swiftly  did  it  come  down.  But  it  did  not  strike  the  cower- 
ing convict.  It  descended  to  the  ground;  its  grip  fell 
away  from  her  hand. 

"  Well,  holler  your  head  off,"  whined  Montreal  Sammy. 

She  stared  at  him.  Her  mind  functioned  as  easily,  as 
swiftly,  as  though  there  had  never  been  any  break  in  that 
functioning.  Shock  had  made  that  mind  go  to  sleep ; 
shock  awakened  it.  If  anything,  it  was  perhaps  re- 
freshed by  its  long  rest.  Her  processes  were  instant. 
She  saw  the  cowering  man  and  knew,  though  all  was  blank 
that  intervened  between  old  Isaac's  meek  departure  and 
this  moment,  what  must  have  happened.  His  cowering, 
his  fear.  .  .  . 

«••          ..«••• 

"  You've  escaped  ?  "  she  said. 


THE  DAY  OF  FAITH  63 

Montreal  Sammy  could  not  marvel  at  her  acuteness. 
He  did  not  know  of  her  condition.  He  nodded. 

"  Wait,"  she  said.  She  looked  behind  her.  Not  a  per- 
son was  in  view. 

She  turned  back  to  him.  "  Run  —  across  the  fairway. 
You  can  hide  —  among  those  trees : 

The  convict  stared  at  her.  Though  freedom  suddenly 
stretched  out  her  welcoming  hands  when  a  moment  ago 
she  had  seemed  to  turn  her  back  on  him,  he  waited  while 
he  asked  a  question. 

"  Why  ?     Why  you  helpin'  me  ?  "  he  demanded. 

She  stared  at  him.  She  shook  her  head.  Why  try  to 
explain  to  him  that,  of  all  the  events  that  had  been  set 
into  motion  by  Montreal  Sammy,  the  greatest  of  them, 
amazingly,  was  the  speech,  the  creed,  of  Bland  Hen- 
dricks?  She  had  gone  into  mental  slumber  with  those 
words  of  Hendricks  upon  her  lips ;  she  awakened  from 
mental  slumber  with  those  words  graven  upon  her  heart: 

".  .  .  to  see  my  neighbor  as  perfect  .  .   ." 

She  seemed  to  hear  the  words ;  she  seemed  to  see  them ; 
she  seemed  to  feel  them  written  upon  her  very  being. 
And  so  she  turned  her  back  upon  Montreal  Sammy.  She 
forgot  her  clubs,  her  golf  bag;  she  strode  toward  the  hos- 
pital. Her  eyes  were  alight. 

A  doctor  stopped  her,  amazed  at  the  expression  of  her 
face.  She  smiled  at  him. 

"  Doctor,'*  she  said,  "  I  want  to  leave  here.  I'm  all 
well." 

Next  morning,  while  all  Berkshire  marveled  at  the 
suddenness  of  a  cure  for  which  Jane  gave  no  reason,  she 
went,  with  the  hastily  summoned  Miss  Anderson,  to  New 
York. 


CHAPTER  VII 

LET  the  elder  generation  lament !  It  always  has  la- 
mented and  it  always  will  lament.  For  the  radical  of 
yesterday  is  the  reactionary  of  to-day.  There  are  no 
artists  to-day ;  there  are  no  writers ;  there  are  no  actors ; 
there  are  no  statesmen.  But  there  never  are,  —  to-day. 
Only  in  yesterday  and  to-morrow  may  we  find  genius, 
may  we  find  that  delectable  land  named  "  Things-as-they- 
ought-to-be." 

So  New  York  has  changed;  it  is  vulgar,  crude,  com- 
mercial, beautyless,  harsh,  strident,  clanging,  dirty,  cor- 
rupt, vile.  Those  who  have  yesterday's  standard  with 
which  to  compare  to-day's  can  prove  it,  over  and  over 
again. 

Yet  to  one  who  sees  the  magic  city  for  the  first  time, 
who  emerges  from  the  earth's  bowels  to  gaze  in  appalled 
wonderment  at  the  monster  who  crouches  upon  the  island 
and  reaches  across  the  river  and  the  bay,  the  lament  of 
the  elders  is  as  one  faint  discord  in  a  perfectly  rendered 
opera.  One  forgets  the  discord. 

To  Jane,  fresh  from  a  long  sleep,  the  great  monster 
was  a  kindly  thing,  tamed,  tractable.  For  her  the  mon- 
ster smiled,  gave  of  her  best. 

Miss  Anderson  went,  immediately  upon  their  arrival 
in  New  York,  into  council  with  the  elders  of  the  An- 
derson-Maynard  family.  She  had  had  a  long  talk  with 
the  physicians  in  charge  at  Berkshire,  and  they  had  told 
her  that  Jane  was  undoubtedly  cured  forever.  Her  con- 
versation on  the  train  with  Jane  had  strengthened  her 
willingness  to  believe  the  doctors.  Jane  was  well. 


THE  DAY  OF  FAITH  65 

"  It  isn't,"  said  Miss  Anderson  to  the  grave  men  and 
women  who  listened  to  her,  "  as  though  Berkshire  were  an 
asylum.  Every  one  knows  that  it's  a  rest  cure,  that 
scores  of  people  go  there  to  recuperate  from  illness." 

Her  brother,  Morton  Anderson,  eminent  in  the  law, 
smiled  gravely.  "  Jane  hasn't  disgraced  us,"  he  stated. 
"  Even  if  Berkshire  were  an  asylum,  I'd  still  feel  that 
Jane  had  not  shamed  us  irreparably.  Jane  looks  0.  K. 
to  me." 

The  others  nodded  assent. 

"  So,"  went  on  the  lawyer,  "  I  don't  know  why  we 
should  all  assemble,  like  a  group  of  conspirators " 

"  Jane  told  me,  on  the  way  here,  that  she  didn't  intend 
to  live  with  any  of  her  relations,"  said  Miss  Anderson. 

Her  brother  laughed.  He  was  a  solemn-looking  per- 
son, but  he  had  a  heavy  sense  of  humor.  "  I'd  say,"  he 
said,  "  that  that  shows  her  good  sense." 

His  sister  sniffed.  "  She  is  a  young,  unmarried 
girl " 

"  Rot,"  said  her  brother  with  that  freedom  of  opin- 
ion and  expression  so  well  known  to  sisters.  "  She  can 
take  care  of  herself  anywhere.  She's  had  a  darned  hard 
time  of  it.  A  rotten  time.  And  if  we  pick  on  her,  make 

her  think  that  we're  watching  her She  is  all  right, 

isn't  she?  " 

"  She  is,"  assented  Miss  Anderson. 

"  Well,  then,  because  she's  had  a  tough  time,  why  re- 
mind her  of  it?  Let  her  live  where  she  wants." 

His  sister's  nose  tilted  slightly.  "  Even  on  the  East 
Side?  " 

"  We  live  on  the  East  Side,"  retorted  Mortimer. 

"  Upper»  "  corrected  Miss  Anderson.  "  But  not  down 
in  the  slums." 

"  What  do  3rou  mean  ?  "  he  demanded. 

"  I  mean  that  Jane  is  going  to  start  some  sort  of  set- 


66  THE  DAY  OF  FAITH 

tlement  work  —  she's  vague  about  it  —  she  doesn't  ex- 
actly know  what  —  or  won't  tell  me,  anyway.  And  I 
don't  think  that  a  girl  of  her  position,  considering  every- 
thing, should  make  herself  conspicuous " 

"  My  dear  Pauline,"  said  her  brother,  "she  can't,  con- 
sidering that  Marley  has  been  dead  only  a  few  months,  lead 
a  very  active  social  life.  Leland,  you  tell  me,  is  quite 
naturally  distasteful  to  her  at  the  present  time.  Other- 
wise she  might  keep  herself  busy  there.  But  in  New 
York,  barred,  for  some  time  to  come,  from  the  obvious 
gayeties  of  her  age  and  sex  —  I  think  that  she  ought  to 
be  permitted  to  do  what  she  likes.  Charity  work  is  a 
good  thing.  I  approve  it." 

Morton  Anderson,  by  reason  of  his  years,  his  money, 
and  his  position  at  the  bar,  was  the  acknowledged  head 
of  the  family.  His  word  was  law.  So  nothing  of  the 
others'  objections  were  told  to  Jane. 

As  for  Jane,  repossession  of  her  faculties  did  not  mean 
that  she  was  the  same  Jane  Maynard  of  old.  She  recog- 
nized this  sooner  than  any  one  else,  and  marveled  more. 
For  she  was  honest  with  herself;  it  was  not  depression 
over  the  loss  of  her  father  —  though  she  missed  him 
sorely  —  that  made  her  feverishly  fretful  to  occupy  her 
mind  and  hands.  It  was  something  else,  something  which 
she  hated  to  admit  to  herself. 

She  sneered  at  herself;  she  argued  and  fought  with 
herself;  but  to  no  purpose.  Hadn't  old  Isaac  come  to 
her  bedside  with  every  intention  of  killing  her?  Hadn't 
a  phrase  sent  him  away? 

She  appealed  to  her  common  sense.  Old  Isaac  was  a 
crazy  old  Negro,  and  she  had  mastered  him  by  her  own 
courage.  That  was  the  explanation  of  common  sense. 
But  —  was  the  explanation  a  true  one? 

Montreal  Sammy  had  caused  her  father's  death.  A 
few  months  ago  she  had  craved  for  his  life.  Now  —  only 


THE  DAY  OF  FAITPI  67 

the  other  day  —  she  had  let  him  escape.  A  word  from 
her  and  he  would  have  tamely  marched  back  to  Sing 
Sing.  Yet  she  had  not  uttered  the  word;  she  had  let 
him  go. 

Why?     Because  she  no  longer  hated  the  man! 

Was  it  disloyalty  to  her  father?  No,  it  couldn't  be 
that.  Nor  could  it  be  a  suddenly  acquired  callousness  of 
spirit.  For  the  tears  welled  in  her  eyes,  her  throat  con- 
tracted, her  heart  ached  at  every  thought  of  Marley 
Maynard. 

She  had  failed  in  no  loyalty  to  his  memory,  then.  Nor 
was  it  due,  this  strange  feeling  of  hers,  to  a  regret  for 
what  had  happened  to  Bland  Hendricks.  Not  that  she 
was  not  remorseful.  She  was,  at  times,  overwhelmed. 
But,  so  nearly  as  she  could  analyze  her  thoughts,  her  emo- 
tions, Bland  Hendricks  himself  had  nothing  to  do  with 
her  present  intention.  It  was  what  he  had  said,  what  he 
represented,  not  the  man. 

And  what  had  he  said?  He  had  said  that  he  saw  Ijis 
neighbor  as  perfect. 

It  was  an  absurd  statement;  Jane  recognized  its  ab- 
surdity. Yet,  in  defense  of  that  belief,  that  man  had 
surrendered  his  life.  He  had  believed  in  its  verity.  Yet 
why  should  Hendricks'  faith  in  his  own  fanaticism  blind 
her  to  the  dictates  of  common  sense? 

Were  there  two  Jane  Maynards  ?  Would  the  common- 
sensible  one  suddenly  awake  and  put  the  other  one  to 
sleep?  For  she  studied  herself  with  a  queer  detachment, 
as  though  she,  herself,  were  another  person. 

She  shook  her  head.  The  common-sensible  Jane  May- 
nard would  never  exist  until  fair  play  had  been  done. 

Fair  play !  She  had  directly  —  it  was  useless  to  at- 
tempt to  console  her  conscience  with  quibbles  —  been  re- 
sponsible for  Hendricks'  death.  Her  action,  as  she 
leaned  from  her  motor,  had  inflamed  an  already  maddened 


68  THE  DAY  OF  FAITH 

mob.  Because  of  her,  Bland  Hendricks  had  never  had 
opportunity  to  preach  and  practice,  as  doubtless  he  had 
intended,  his  queer,  madman's  creed. 

Was  it  not,  then,  common  justice  to  carry  on  Bland 
Hendricks*  work,  to  give  it  a  trial? 

She  laughed  at  this  reasoning ;  she  sneered  at  it ;  she* 
berated  herself.  But  it  made  no  difference;  she  seemed, 
somehow,  in  the  grip  of  something  stronger  than  her- 
self, a  helpless  victim  of  its  whims.  And  she  was ;  for  she 
was  gripped  in  the  clutch  of  an  Idea,  and  an  idea  is 
stronger  than  armies,  greater  than  the  elements,  more 
powerful  than  man  himself.  For  man  is  himself  but  an 
idea ;  what  he  holds  within  himself  differentiates  him  from 
the  animals,  and  what  can  he  hold  but  an  idea? 

And  so  she  made  her  plans.  They  were  vague,  indefi- 
nite plans  at  first.  Not  until  some  weeks  had  passed, 
and  she  had  drunk  New  York  to  the  full,  did  she  enter 
on  anything  definite. 

For,  after  her  period  of  mental  slumber,  New  York, 
despite  her  grief  at  loss  of  her  father,  was  a  place  of  joy. 
To  walk  its  streets,  to  breathe  its  electric  atmosphere, 
to  see  the  myriad  faces  of  its  hurrying  throngs,  to  feel, 
as  one  must  feel,  the  eternal  restlessness  of  the  city,  its 
struggle  for  achievement,  its  never-aging  youth.  New 
York  cannot  know  defeat. 

Had  she  returned  to  Leland,  the  preposterousness  of 
her  vague  intentions  would  have  been  shown  to  her  at 
once.  Leland  was  settled,  staid,  averse  to  change.  But 
New  York  welcomed  change;  New  York  was  ever  chang- 
ing itself ;  New  York  was  the  spirit  of  hope,  of  ambition ; 
New  York  encouraged  her.  What  if  she  were  later  mas- 
tered by  common  sense?  New  York  would  laugh  with  her, 
not  at  her,  for  her  failure 

On  an  East  Side  street,  where  the  tall  tenements, 
dingy,  battered,  cast  their  shadow  of  poverty  upon  the 


THE  DAY  OF  FAITH  69 

littered  pavement,  she  rented  a  house.  It  had  been  an 
old  stable.  Because  of  some  defect  in  the  title,  investors 
had  not  built  upon  it  one  of  those  human  hives  wherein 
dwell  the  ineffectuals,  the  hopeless,  of  the  great  city. 

But  progressive  tenants  had  made  small  improvements 
here  and  there.  People  had  lived  in  it ;  rather,  they  had 
existed.  A  sickening  stench  arose  from  it,  an  odor  com- 
pounded of  musty  disuse  and  improper  drainage. 

But  she  remodeled  it.  On  the  ground  floor  there  came 
into  being  a  good-sized  hall,  well  equipped  with  tables 
and  chairs.  Along  the  walls  were  shelves  of  books  and 
magazines ;  at  one  end  was  a  piano,  and  at  the  other  a 
great  open  fireplace.  Beyond  was  a  kitchen,  well  fur- 
nished with  the  implements  of  cooking. 

Upstairs  were  bedrooms,  half  a  dozen  of  them.  One 
was  Jane's.  There  were  bathrooms,  and  each  room  was 
fitted  with  such  toilet  accessories  as  none  of  the  women 
—  or  men,  for  that  matter  —  of  this  lowly  neighborhood 
had  ever  seen. 

For  the  whole  neighborhood  saw  the  house.  A  very 
natural  curiosity  evinced  itself  during  the  alteration 
work.  Women  peered  into  the  building.  And  Jane 
talked  to  them.  Their  husbands,  sons,  brothers,  were 
told  the  queer  tale. 

No  one  exactly  understood,  except  that  the  strange 
lady  was  a  "  nut."  She  was  fixing  up  the  house  for 
every  one.  Well,  that  was  what  she  said.  Anybody  that 
wanted  a  meal,  or  a  place  to  sleep,  or  to  play  the  piano, 
or  cards,  or  read. 

"  That's  where  you  are  way  off,"  said  the  tolerant 
Morton  Anderson.  "  You  have  about  six  rooms.  How 
on  earth  are  you  going  to  accommodate  all  the  poor  peo- 
ple who  need  shelter?  " 

"  There'll  be  room  enough,"  said  Jane. 

He  stared  at  her.     Her  eyes  were  clear;  they  were 


70  THE  DAY  OF  FAITH 

almost  roguish  in  their  expression.  And  her  lips  were 
curved  in  her  old-time,  lovely  smile.  He  was  a  shrewd 
man;  he  knew  an  insane  person  when  he  saw  one.  And 
Jane  was  master  of  her  mind. 

Still He  attended   the  formal   opening   of   the 

place.  He  came  shortly  after  eight  o'clock.  One  bright 
electric  light  shone  above  the  door,  illuminating  a  sign 
that  had  been  hung  since  his  last  visit.  He  stopped  and 
read  the  words : 

BLAND  HENDRICKS  FOUNDATION 
My  Neighbor  Is  Perfect 

He  entered,  pushing  himself  through  a  crowd  of  meek 
souls,  men  and  women,  who  gave  way  to  this  prosperous 
being.  The  main  hall  was  filled  with  people.  Some  one 
was  playing  the  piano,  and  half  a  dozen  were  trying  to 
sing.  Others  were  playing  cards,  or  reading,  despite  the 
intolerable  racket.  Perhaps,  though,  it  wasn't  so  intol- 
erable. They  seemed  happy,  contented. 

He  went  into  the  kitchen.  Almost  twenty  women,  some 
of  them  fat  and  some  of  them  thin,  but  even  the  fat  ones 
seeming  badly  nourished,  had  crowded  into  the  kitchen. 
They  were  talking  at  the  top  of  their  lungs,  the  while  they 
mixed  things  in  bowls,  or  took  them  to  or  from  the  stove. 

Jane  was  there,  her  sleeves  rolled  up  to  her  pretty 
elbows.  She  gave  her  uncle  a  nod  and  joined  him. 

"  This,"  he  said,  "  is  going  to  cost  money." 

"  The  rent  is  only  a  hundred  dollars  a  month,"  she 
retorted. 

"  But  —  this  food,"  he  said. 

"  They  brought  it  themselves,"  she  told  him. 

He  pursed  his  lips.     "  How'd  you  do  that?" 

She  shrugged.  "  I  told  them  that  we'd  have  an  open- 
ing party.  I  told  every  one  to  bring  what  he  could " 


THE  DAY  OF  FAITH  71 

He  changed  the  subject  abruptly.  "  Do  they  get  that 
• — that  sign  outside?" 

She  shrugged  again.  "  I  don't  know.  They  will.  I 
make  them  say  it  when  they  come  in." 

"Say  what?" 

"  *  My  neighbor  is  perfect,' ' 

He  stared  at  her.     "  And  do  they  say  it?  " 

"  Of  course ;  it's  the  only  rule.  It's  easy  to  say  it. 
You  say  it,  Uncle  Mort." 

He  looked  at  her.  Slowly  he  said :  "  My  neighbor  is 
perfect." 

She  laughed.      "  Feel  better?  " 

"  My  God,  Jane,"  he  exploded,  "  you  —  you  don't 
think  —  that's  the  wheeze  that  Hendricks  pulled,  isn't 
it?  " 

She  took  no  offense  at  his  word  "  wheeze." 

"  That  was  it." 

"  And  you're  taking  it  seriously  ?  You've  named  this 
building  after  him  —  Jane,  I  know  you're  not  crazy.  I 
know  it.  But " 

"  Say  it  again,"  she  told  him.  "  Say  that  your  neigh- 
bor is  perfect." 

"  Oh,  my  good  grandmother !  "  he  cried.  "  That  sort 
of  —  of  pap  —  may  be  all  right  to  feed  infants  on  — > 
but,  Jane  —  I  —  I  didn't  realize  —  I  thought  that  set- 
tlement work  was  —  well  —  giving  them  food  or  money 
—  Jane,  I  came  down  to  help  you  start  the  thing  right. 
I  brought  a  bunch  of  money  —  to  hand  around " 

He  took  out  his  pocketbook ;  it  bulged  with  bills ;  he 
withdrew  them  and  handed  them  to  Jane.  He  put  the 
flattened  wallet  back  in  his  pocket  and  eyed  her.  She 
nodded  her  thanks.  She  squeezed  his  hand. 

"  You're  a  good  scout,  Uncle  Mort."  She  walked  into 
the  main  hall  and  tossed  the  bundle  of  bills  upon  a  table. 


72  THE  DAY  OF  FAITH 

Mortimer  Anderson,  who  respected  money,  shuddered  in- 
voluntarily at  her  careless  treatment  of  his  gift.  And 
then  he  gaped  as  she  said,  "  If  there's  any  one  here  who 
really  needs  some  money,  let  him  help  himself." 

She  turned  and  went  back  into  the  kitchen.  Anderson 
stayed  in  the  hall.  A  dead  silence  reigned.  Every  eye 
was  fastened  upon  the  table,  with  its  green  burden.  Then 
a  man  laughed  nervously.  "  I  gotta  all  da  jack  I  need," 
he  said. 

The  piano  player  hit  the  keys  a  resounding  note.  And 
when  Anderson  left  the  house,  the  money  remained  intact 
upon  the  table. 

Well,  he  handed  it  to  Jane.  She  was  a  wonderful  stage 
manager.  "  I  don't  know  her  little  game,"  he  told  the 
rest  of  the  family,  awaiting  his  return  from  the  opening 
which  they  refused  to  sanction  with  their  presence,  "  but 
it*s  deep.  She's  got  a  bunch  of  money  —  Marley  must 
have  left  her  half  a  million  —  but  I  never  knew  a  charity 
worker  that  couldn't  use  more.  Well,  I  gave  her  five 
hundred  dollars,  and,  as  I've  told  you,  she  just  tossed  it 
on  a  table  and  invited  the  gang  to  help  themselves.  Give 
you  my  word  —  just  like  that !  " 

"  And  you  sent  in  a  riot  call  for  the  police  reserves  ?  " 
asked  his  son,  a  youth  about  Jane's  age. 

"  That's  where  you're  fooled,  'son ;  in  the  same  place 
that  I  was.  I  tell  you,  I  stayed  there  two  hours,  and  not 
;a  person  had  touched  a  single  dollar !  " 

"  Why?  "  demanded  Miss  Pauline. 

"  Oh,  my  sweet  grandmother,  ask  me  something  easy ! 
7  don't  know  — •  unless  she  had  them  stage  managed " 

"  Why  would  she  do  that?  "  demanded  Miss  Pauline. 

Her  brother  was  quite  openly  exasperated.  "  How 
do  I  know?  She's  as  deep  as ' 

"  Some  sort  of  a  trick,"  said  his  son. 


THE  DAY  OF  FAITH  73 

Which  was  exactly  what  Yegg  Darby  was  saying,  at 
that  exact  moment,  to  Montreal  Sammy. 

Sammy  had  reached  New  York  in  safety.  There  an 
old  pal  had  given  him  a  hiding  place.  But  Yegg  Darby 
was  as  penniless  as  Sammy.  And  so  they  had  set  out  to 
rob  a  store  whereof  Darby  knew.  They  had  passed 
through  Carey  Street  and  seen  the  brilliantly  lighted 
Hendricks  Foundation.  Both  apprehensive  of  the  light, 
they  had  shuffled  speedily  by,  neither  looking  up  at  the 
sign. 

An  hour  later,  having  opened  the  back  door  of  the 
store,  and  having  found  that  the  owner  was  cautious 
enough  to  leave  no  money  overnight  in  his  place  of  busi- 
ness, they  had  wandered,  disgruntled,  back  through  Carey 
Street. 

There  Darby  encountered  a  gentleman  of  his  acquaint- 
ance, a  humbler  toiler  in  the  same  vineyard  of  crookedness 
in  which  Darby  labored.  He  had  told  a  marvelous  tale. 

A  crazy  skirt  had  opened  some  sort  of  a  religious  dump 
and  offered  everybody  a  bunch  of  kale ;  said  to  help  them- 
selves. The  money,  he  guessed,  was  still  on  the  table  in 
the  main  hall. 

"Was  you  there?"  demanded  Darby. 

The  acquaintance  shook  his  head.  "  I'm  leery  of  these 
dumps;  there's  somepin  phony  about  them.  But  it's  on 
the  level." 

"  Why  n't  some  one  grab  the  jack  and  blow?"  de- 
manded the  indignantly  incredulous  Darby. 

"  I  duiino.  I  guess  they  figgered  they  was  a  trick  in 
it,  somehow." 

The  acquaintance  sauntered  away.  Montreal  Sammy 
stared  at  the  house  across  the  street.  The  electric  light 
over  the  sign  was  not  burning.  It  was  not  Jane's  fault ; 
she  had  intended  it  to  burn  all  night.  But  a  defective 
wiring  had  caused  it  to  burn  itself  out.  There  was  noth- 


74  THE  DAY  OF  FAITH 

ing  to  illuminate  that  sign  which  would  have  evoked  memo- 
ries to  Montreal  Sammy. 

"  Well,  let's  crash  in  and  see  what's  what,"  said  Sammy. 

Darby  hesitated.  "  It's  some  sort  of  a  trick,"  he  re- 
plied. 


CHAPTER  VHI 

MONTREAL,  SAMMY  sneered.  He  eyed  his  reluctant  com- 
panion contemptuously.  "  Sure  it's  a  trick,"  he  agreed. 
"  The  easiest  trick  I  ever  heard  of.  No  one  in  the  house 
except  a  lady  with  a  cracked  dome  and  a  bunch  of  jack 
waitin'  for  a  coupla  handsome  young  fellows  to  come  in 
and  get  it." 

Yegg  Darby  hesitated.  "  It  ain't  reasonable,  Mon- 
treal. I'm  sort  of  off  churches,  if  it  comes  to  that." 

"  It  ain't  a  church,"  exclaimed  Sammy.  He  turned 
and  stared  again  at  the  house  across  the  street.  There 
were  lights  burning  there,  both  upstairs  and  down.  But 
their  informant  had  assured  them  that,  so  far  as  he  knew, 
every  one  except  the  mistress  of  the  place  had  left. 

"  And,  anyway,"  he  persisted,  "  if  there's  any  ruckus, 
can't  we  say  we  just  blew  in  to  get  a  dime's  worth  of  re- 
ligion?" 

Yegg  Darby  grinned.  "  A  dime's  worth  of  religion 
wouldn't  do  you  no  good,  Sammy." 

"  No ;  nor  a  million  dollars'  worth  of  it  wouldn't  help 
you,"  retorted  Sammy.  "  Why,  a  whole  churchful  of  it 
wouldn't  put  a  new  pair  of  shoes  on  your  big  feet.  Do 
I  crack  it  alone?  If  I  do,  I  spend  it  alone." 

He  looked  up  and  down  the  street.  Carey  Street  had 
gone  to  bed.  And  the  occasional  late  wanderer  didn't 
disturb  them.  Was  this  not  a  "  religious  dump  "?  Were 
they  not  two  honest  men  in  need  of  spiritual  consolation? 
It  was  with  such  specious  argument  that  Montreal  Sammy 
bolstered  up  the  waning  courage  of  Yegg  Darby.  If  any 
one  saw  them  enter,  they  had  their  answer  ready  for  any 


76  THE  DAY  OF  FAITH 

impertinent  question.  And  so  they  crossed  the  street 
and  mounted  the  few  steps. 

The  practiced  fingers  of  Montreal  Sammy  rested  lightly 
on  the  door  knob.  The  oldest,  most  squeaky  latch,  the 
most  noisy  hinges,  held  no  fear  for  Sammy.  And  this 
door  had  been  newly  hung.  They  stepped  swiftly  across 
the  threshold.  A  light  burned  in  the  hallway.  An 
opened  door  at  the  left  revealed  the  large  hall,  with  its 
piano,  its  open  fireplace,  its  many  chairs,  and  its  table, 
upon  which,  visible  from  where  they  stood,  was  a  bunch 
of  paper  money,  weighted  down  by  a  carelessly  placed 
book. 

Ahead  of  them  was  a  narrow  flight  of  stairs,  illumi- 
nated by  an  electric  light  at  the  top.  But  there  was  no 
one  on  those  stairs ;  apparently,  so  nearly  as  their  prac- 
ticed ears  could  detect,  there  was  no  one  downstairs.  Ani- 
mated by  one  impulse,  they  stepped  through  the  open 
door  into  the  large  hall. 

Together  they  reached  the  table  and  stared  down  at  it. 

"  Phon}r?  "  whispered  Darby. 

Montreal  Sammy  shook  his  head.  He  could  tell  coun- 
terfeit money,  he  believed.  This  explanation  of  the 
money's  presence  was  false.  For  it  was  well-worn,  much- 
used  money.  A  sudden  indignation,  similar  to  that  which 
had  reigned  in  Darby's  breast  a  few  minutes  ago,  pos- 
sessed Montreal  Sammy. 

What  was  the  world  coming  to?  The  people  who  had 
been  present  at  the  opening  of  this  religious  house  had 
been  offered  the  money.  He'd  sneered  when  the  word 
"  trick  "  had  been  used,  but  still 

Amazed  by  the  incredibility  of  the  whole  business,  the 
two  men  lifted  their  eyes  from  the  table  and  gazed  at 
each  other.  And  then  their  meeting  glances  shifted  to 
the  doorway.  They  stared  at  the  woman  who  suddenly 
stood  there. 


THE  DAY  OF  FAITH  77 

Jane  had  not  heard  their  entrance,  did  not  know  that 
they  were  present.  She  had  retired  to  her  room  upstairs, 
as  bewildered,  as  dazed,  as  any  one  of  the  most  sophisti- 
cated of  the  evening's  guests. 

She  had  had  no  definite  plan.  Beyond  the  fact  that 
she  was  opening  a  place  of  rest  and  entertainment  and 
possible  helpfulness,  she  had  not  known  exactly  what  she 
was  doing.  Somewhat  similar  might  have  been  Joan  of 
Arc's  feelings.  The  Maid  had  a  definite  plan  —  to  free 
France  —  but  did  she  know  how? 

She  had  insisted  on  the  utterance  of  one  phrase  by 
those  who  entered  the  Hendricks  Foundation.  But  that 
was  all.  She  had  told  her  uncle  that  the  six  bedrooms 
would  be  sufficient  accommodation  for  all  who  needed 
shelter.  What,  exactly,  had  she  meant  by  that?  She 
could  hardly  have  told  in  coherent  speech. 

She  had  offered  her  uncle's  five  hundred  dollars  to  who- 
soever wished  it.  And  it  had  remained  on  the  table  all 
evening.  Now,  in  her  room,  a  dressing  gown  around  her, 
her  feet  in  slippers,  a  great  peace  mingled  with  a  great 
beAvilderment. 

The  poor  —  these  were  the  very  poor  down  here  on 
Carey  Street  —  had  asked  nothing  of  her,  had  taken  noth- 
ing. But  she  was  an  extremely  practical  young  woman. 
Until  now!  What  had  obsessed  her?  In  the  reaction 
from  the  excitement  of  recent  days,  culminating  in  the 
entertainment  of  to-night,  she  asked  herself  that  question. 

And  suddenly,  out  of  her  bewilderment,  out  of  her 
peace,  came  the  answer.  She  knew,  at  last,  that  she  had 
been  animated  by  no  injunction  laid  upon  her  mind  by 
the  mind  of  another.  She  was  her  own  free  self,  but  — 
she  had  realized  a  truth. 

Now,  in  her  room,  she  analyzed,  what  the  simple  creed 
of  Bland  Hendricks  meant,  in  a  practical  way.  "  My 
neighbor  is  perfect."  If  she  believed  that,  it  must  be 


78  THE  DAY  OF  FAITH 

true.  For  her  neighbor's  only  existence,  in  so  far  as  she 
was  concerned,  was  in  her  mind.  It  was  as  she  saw  him 
that  he  was. 

If  she  be  not  so  to  me, 
What  care  I  how  fair  she  be  ? 

The  line  from  the  old  poem  sprang  inconsequentially 
into  her  head.  But  —  was  it  inconsequential?  Wasn't 
there  truth  in  it?  If  one  saw  another  person  as  beau- 
tiful    She'd  heard  cousins  rave  about  the  girls  with 

whom  they  were  in  love.  They'd  been  rather  ordinary 
young  women,  she'd  usually  thought.  And  the  adored 
young  women  had  spoken  dreamily  about  these  selfsame 
commonplace  cousins.  To  each  other,  then,  these  couples 
were  no  less  than  perfect.  But  outside  couples, —  were 
they  "  fair "  to  the  onlookers  ?  She  smiled.  They 
hadn't  been  particularly  so  to  her.  Nice,  ordinary, 
healthy  girls  and  boys. 

But  that  had  been  in  one  of  the  yesterdays.  To-day, 
to-night,  it  was  all  different.  Her  neighbor  was  perfect. 
Every  one  who  had  been  present  to-night  —  kindly,  gen- 
erous, friendly,  amiable.  Hadn't  they  been?  Of  course 
they  had  been.  Without  greed.  She  suddenly  wondered, 
ashamed  of  herself  for  wondering,  fighting  against  the 
feeling,  but  unable  to  conquer  it,  if  that  money  down- 
stairs still  remained  there.  Somehow  it  had  become  sym- 
bolical of  something,  that  something  which  was  still  in- 
choate in  her  mind,  but  that  she  was  beginning  to  define. 

She  would  look ;  would  reassure  herself.  Of  course,  it 
had  been  offered  to  all  those  present.  Any  one  of  them 
had  a  right  to  any  or  all  of  it.  There  had  been  no  strings 
tied  to  her  gift.  But  it  had  been  intact  when  she  had 
said  good-by  to  the  last  of  her  guests.  If  any  one  should 
have  returned,  taken  it 


THE  DAY  OF  FAITH  79 

So,  noiseless  in  her  soft  mules,  she  reached  the  door 
of  the  general  hall  and  saw  there,  standing  by  the  table, 
the  two  visitors. 

Montreal  Sammy  recognized  her  at  once.  For  one 
brief  second  he  was  panicky.  She'd  let  him  escape  that 
day  on  the  golf  course,  but  there  was  such  a  thing  — 
though  Sammy  didn't  phrase  it  that  way  —  as  tempting 
Fate  too  far.  He  called  it,  to  himself,  "  pressing  his 
luck." 

But  panic  left  him,  and  also  the  heart  of  Yegg  Darby, 
at  her  first  words.  For,  though  their  stealthiness,  their 
alarmed  attitudes  proclaimed  the  reason  for  their  en- 
trance, they  had  not  been  of  those  who  had  entered, 
more  formally,  earlier  in  the  night.  None  of  those  who 
had  been  her  guests,  who  had  recited  the  brief  four-word 
phrase,  had  returned,  had  abused  that  faith,  that  creed, 
which  willingly  enough  they  had  proclaimed.  Horror,  a 
queer  fear,  that  had  possessed  her  as  she  tiptoed  down- 
stairs, left  her. 

"  Help  yourselves,"  she  said  genially. 

It  was  a  queer  remark,  and  the  tone  in  which  it  was 
uttered  was  queer.  At  least,  so  Yegg  Darby  thought. 
Indignation,  or,  if  the  place  were  really  run  by  a  re- 
ligious "nut,"  a  few  prayers  would  have  been  more  in 
order.  But,  instead,  came  a  friendly  invitation.  Yegg 
Darby,  eyeing  her  closely  —  he'd  seen  women  before  who 
pretended  courage,  self-control,  while  they  were  gather- 
ing themselves  for  a  scream  —  replied,  "  That's  what  we 
came  for.  Glad  you  take  it  so  nice  and  easy.  Keep  on 
that  way.  If  you  let  a  yip  outa  your  system " 

"  Chop  it,"  interrupted  Montreal  Sammy.  Yegg 
Darby  turned  on  him,  aggrieved. 

"  I'm  just  tellin'  her,"  he  said. 

"  Lay  off,"  ordered  Sammy.  He  looked  at  the  girl. 
And  now  she  recognized  him.  He  saw  the  recognition  in 


80  THE  DAY  OF  FAITH 

her  eyes.  Would  she,  this  time,  scream?  But  he  was 
not  panic-stricken,  although  wary.  He  slipped  around 
the  table  as  she  entered  the  room.  Darby  moved  slightly 
to  one  side,  also,  casting  a  glance  that  requested  instruc- 
tion from  Sammy.  But  the  latter  gave  none.  And  so 
Darby,  a  simple  child  of  the  underworld,  acted  in  a  fash- 
ion that  should  have  won  the  commendation  of  his  com- 
panion. 

Jane  was  looking  at  Montreal  Sammy.  And  so,  as  he 
slipped  to  one  side,  Darby  also  slipped  forward.  His 
forearm  was  pressing  against  the  girl's  throat,  stifling 
any  possible  cry,  before  she  had  taken  two  strides  into  the 
room.  He  had  no  more  real  courage  than  Montreal 
Sammy,  but  he  was  quick  as  any  cat. 

"  Bring  a  towel  —  anything,"  he  demanded.  "  We'll 
gag  her " 

But  Montreal  Sammy  brought  something  else.  He 
brought  a  gnarled  and  knuckled  fist  and  placed  it  against 
the  ear  of  his  companion.  Dazed,  almost  knocked  out, 
Darby  staggered  away.  He  fell  to  one  knee,  half  rose, 
his  hand  at  the  side  of  his  face,  then  dropped  back  into 
a  kneeling  position  as  Montreal  Sammy  advanced  toward 
him. 

Jane  held  out  her  hand,  and  Sammy  fell  back. 

"  If  he  hadn't  been  in  such  a  hurry,"  said  Montreal 
Sammy,  "  I  coulda  told  him  that  you  and  me  —  why, 
that  you  and  me " 

"  Are  old  acquaintances,"  prompted  Jane. 

Montreal  Sammy  nodded.     "  Sure,"  he  said. 

He  was  animated  by  no  gratitude  because  Jane  had 
not  hindered  his  escape  from  prison.  He  was  animated 
by  cunning.  This  woman  knew  him;  if  she  chose,  she 
could  inform  the  police  that  she  had  seen  him;  short  of 
murder  —  and  he  shrank  from  anything  like  that  —  there 
was  nothing  to  prevent  her  from  setting  the  police,  who, 


THE  DAY  OF  FAITH  81 

he  had  reason  to  believe,  thought  him  on  a  schooner  bound 
for  South  America,  on  his  trail.  But  she  had  let  him 
go  once  —  she  might  be  persuaded  to  let  him  go  again. 
It  was  pressing  his  luck,  but  —  there  wasn't  anything  else 
to  do. 

Jane  put  her  hand  to  her  throat.  It  throbbed  pain- 
fully. There  would  be  a  red  bruise  there  shortly.  She 
looked  at  Darby,  crouched,  watching  this  amazing  scene. 
Montreal  Sammy  misunderstood  her  glance. 

"  I'll  bust  him  again  if  you  want,"  he  volunteered.  He 
took  a  stride  toward  Darby,  and  that  gentleman  gained 
his  feet.  He  raced  into  the  hall,  and  they  heard  the  door 
crash  behind  him.  Montreal  Sammy  grinned.  There 
were  few  people  of  his  acquaintance  who  feared  him; 
Yegg  Darby  had  endeared  himself  to  Montreal  Sammy 
because  he  was  afraid  of  him.  It  was  gratifying  to 
Sammy's  vanity  that  his  fellow  fled. 

"  Why,  if  we'd  known  it  was  you  here  — —  " 

Jane  sat  down.  She  was  faint,  slightly  dizzy.  Yegg 
Darby's  bony  forearm  had  crushed  the  air  from  her 
lungs. 

"  You  came  for  the  money,  of  course,"  she  said. 

Montreal  Sammy  shrugged.     "  Well,  what  else?" 

"  I  thought  —  I  hoped  —  you  might  have  known  — 
did  you  see  the  sign  outside?  " 

He  shook  his  head. 

"  Every  one  who  comes,"  said  Jane,  "  must  say:  'My 
neighbor  is  perfect.' ' 

Sammy  stared  at  her.  That  was  what  the  queer  old 
guy,  Hendricks,  had  said.  That's  what  they'd  killed  him 
for  saying.  And  now  this  daughter  of  the  man  who  had 
died  upon  Sammy's  entrance  into  his  room  was  running 
a  place,  admission  to  which  was  gained  only  by  saying 
the  same  crazy  rigmarole. 

"  I  didn't  know  that,"  he  stammered. 


82  THE  DAY  OF  FAITH 

She  smiled.  "  Obviously  you  didn't.  Say  it  now,"  she 
ordered. 

Sammy  shrugged.  Nut  stuff,  but  —  what  matter? 
He  said  it.  Jane  eyed  him.  Did  she  expect  some  physi- 
cal sign  of  an  inward  regeneration?  If  so,  she  didn't 
see  it.  For  Sammy  was  still  watchful,  still  cunning. 

"  Now  —  what  do  you  want  ?  "  she  demanded. 

He  grinned.  "  You  know  what  I  came  for."  He  shot 
a  glance  at  the  money  on  the  table. 

"  It's  yours,"  she  said. 

"On  the  level?"  he  asked. 

"  Take  it,"  she  said. 

He  eyed  her.  Then,  slowly,  he  reached  for  the  money. 
Midway  to  it  his  hand  stopped.  She  couldn't  fool  him. 
There  was  some  trick.  He  couldn't  figure  it,  but  —  he 
was  no  sucker.  No  crazy  Moll  could  put  anything  over 
on  him.  And  then,  suddenly,  something  else  animated 
him.  Another  idea  possessed  him. 

This  girl  had  let  him  go  once;  she  was  offering  him 
money  now.  Suppose  that  she  was  in  earnest,  on  the  level  ? 
In  that  case,  there  was  a  whole  lot  more  than  five  hundred 
to  be  made  out  of  her?  He'd  read  and  heard  of  broads 
that  took  a  fancy  to  a  crook,  tried  to  reform  him,  slipped 
him  all  the  jack  in  the  world. 

"  Aw,  I  don't  want  it,"  he  said  sullenly. 

It  was  incredible,  but  —  she  must  believe  it.  Strangely, 
she  did  believe  it.  Into  his  surly  voice  she  put  embarrass- 
ment ;  into  his  restless  eyes  she  put  remorsefulness. 

She  held  out  her  hand  again ;  this  time  Montreal  Sammy 
gingerly  accepted  it.  No  decent  woman  had  touched  his 
hand  in  a  score  of  years.  He  relinquished  it  suddenly, 
red  with  embarrassment,  and  with  hot  self-hatred.  Some- 
how he  wished  to  God  he  could  knock  her  down,  grab 
her  money,  beat  it.  He  couldn't. 

"  It's  yours,  you  know.    Part  or  all  of  it,"  she  said. 


THE  DAY  OF  FAITH  83 

"Ain't  I  tellin'  you  I  don't  want  it?"  he  retorted 
angrily. 

She  sank  back  into  her  chair.  This  was  the  man  whom 
she  had  hoped  to  have  executed  by  the  State,  for  whose 
death,  so  recently,  she  would  have  given  thanks  to  God. 
Subconsciously,  while  she  tried  to  keep  the  Bland  Hend- 
ricks  idea  in  the  forefront  of  her  mind,  she  realized  all 
this. 

Was  it  true,  this  Bland  Hendricks  idea?  And  she 
knew  that  it  was !  This  man  could  not  hurt  her,  would 
not  steal. 

*  I  gotta  be  goin',"  said  Montreal  Sammy. 

"  Where  ?  "  she  demanded. 

Sammy  didn't  answer.  Yegg  Darby  had  taken  him  in, 
given  him  a  hiding  place.  But  to-night  he  had  knocked 
Yegg  Darby  down.  More  unforgivable  than  that,  Yegg 
Darby  would  know  that  Sammy  could  have  had  this 
money,  Darby  would  not  believe  that  the  possible  "  trick  " 
had  deterred  Montreal  Sammy  from  seizing  the  money. 
To  join  the  beaten  Darby  without  money.  And  he 
wouldn't  take  any  part  of  this  money.  Somehow,  cunning 
had  nothing  to  do  with  this  decision.  There  wasn't  any 
trick  to  it ;  but  the  girl  was  crazy,  and 

"  I  dunno,"  said  Sammy. 

"  Stay  here,"  invited  Jane. 

"  Huh?  "     He  didn't  understand. 

"  This  is  a  home  for  those  who  wish  it,"  she  explained. 
"  There  are  rooms  upstairs.  You  may  have  one  for  as 
long  as  you  want." 

He  heard  her ;  he  understood.  Not  only  was  she  crazy, 
but  —  he,  Montreal  Sammy,  was  crazy,  too.  What  was 
that  rigmarole  she'd  made  him  recite  ?  "  My  neighbor  is 
perfect."  What  did  it  mean?  What  was  it  all  about? 

As  she  turned  toward  the  door,  he  stared  at  the  money. 
One  movement  of  his  agile  fingers  and  it  would  be  in  his 


84i  THE  DAY  OF  FAITH 

pocket.  But  what  good,  he  suddenly  asked  himself,  was 
five  hundred  dollars?  For  that  matter,  what  good  was 
five  million,  when  the  police  wanted  you? 

Suddenly  Montreal  Sammy  felt  bewildered,  helpless. 
Life  had  offered  no  complexity  to  him  thus  far.  One  stole 
and  escaped;  one  stole  and  was  caught.  That  was  all 
there  was  to  it.  But  now  it  suddenly  became  involved.  A 
simple  sentence  complicated  it.  This  dame  meant  what  she 
said.  He  could  have  the  money,  could  have  a  room  here 
to-night.  Why?  Because  she  believed  this  stuff  that  the 
man  up  in  Leland  had  sprung  on  the  young  district  at- 
torney who'd  wanted  to  ring  for  a  police  wagon  to  convey 
Montreal  Sammy  to  the  police  station. 

Now,  she  was  a  lady ;  a  real  swell,  he'd  learned,  while 
he  was  incarcerated  in  the  Leland  jail.  Brains,  society  — 
all  that  stuff.  Yet  here  she  was,  down  here  in  the  slums, 
practicing,  apparently,  what  Hendricks  had  preached. 
Was  there  anything  in  it? 

A  new  creed  almost  invariably  has  its  start  among  the 
very  poor.  Because  they  are  simple  of  mind ;  and  creeds, 
religions,  depend  upon  faith,  not  upon  intellect.  Man  has 
devised  no  creed  as  yet  which  cannot  be  ridiculed  by  the 
intellect.  But  the  heart  is  something  else. 

The  poor  are  simple-minded.      So  is  the  criminal. 

Was  there  anything  to  it?  Suddenly  Montreal  Sammy 
felt  that  Jane  Maynard  was  not  merely  a  "  nut."  She  was 
an  extraordinarily  kind  person  who  had  forgiven  him 
something  that  he'd  never  have  forgiven  his  —  his  —  why, 
he  wouldn't  have  forgiven  anyone ! 

"  I'll  take  one  of  those  rooms,"  he  said  slowly. 

She  smiled  at  him.  He  was  warmed  by  it,  thrilled,  as 
he  followed  her  upstairs.  Between  the  clean  sheets  of  the 
bed  in  which  he  was  presently  lying,  he  pondered  the 
bizarre  situation.  What  would  Darby  say?  Well,  if 
Darby  laughed,  he'd  knock  him  for  a  goal.  No,  he 


THE  DAY  OF  FAITH  85 

wouldn't.  Darby  was  0.  K.  He  was  sorry  that  he'd 
hit  him.  But  Darby  was  a  swell  pal;  Darby  wouldn't 
be  sore ;  Darby  was  a  regular  feller. 

He  didn't  know  Yegg  Darby  as  well  as  he  thought. 


CHAPTER  IX 

YEGG  DARBY,  in  the  course  of  time  —  a  brief  course  — 
would  have  forgiven  and  perhaps  forgotten  the  blow  upon 
his  ear.  This  is,  had  other  untoward  events  not  arisen. 
For  Darby  was  not  the  revengeful  sort.  He'd  seen  too 
many  promising  young  lads  sent  to  jail  because  they 
entered  into  private  feuds.  With  the  police  and  all  society 
against  them,  it  is  obvious  that  crooks  who  fall  out 
are  fools. 

Not  that  Darby  would  kiss  the  hand  that  struck  him. 
He  did  not  enjoy  being  struck.  But  he  was  yellow  to  the 
very  soul  of  him.  Montreal  Sammy  could  whip  him ;  also, 
there  was  a  profit  in  their  partnership.  Montreal  Sammy 
was  far  more  expert  and  versatile  than  Yegg  Darby. 
When  pride  conflicted  with  profit,  Darby  knew  which  side 
to  take. 

So,  beyond  some  mumbled  threats  as  he  slunk  along 
home,  threats  that  were  as  vague  in  his  mind  as  they 
were  on  his  tongue,  Darby  intended  no  harm  to  Montreal 
Sammy.  And  probably  would  have  done  him  none  had 
not  a  certain  Allen  entered  the  dingy  tenement  room  of 
Darby  early  the  following  morning. 

A  square-toed  man,  heavy  of  body,  and  with  hard  eyes 
and  gross  nose  and  mouth  and  stubborn  chin,  the  smile 
with  which  he  looked  down  upon  the  sleeping  Darby  boded 
that  criminal  no  good.  He  sat  down  suddenly  and  heavily 
upon  the  edge  of  Darby's  bed.  The  sleeping  man  awoke. 

He  recognized  his  caller  at  once.  More  than  once  had 
the  plain-clothes  man  placed  a  heavy  hand  upon  his 
shoulder. 


THE  DAY  OF  FAITH  87 

"  Well,  what  you  want  ?  "  he  demanded.  He  tried  to 
be  gruff,  to  assume  an  anger  that  would  hide  his  fear. 

Allen  grinned  amiably.    "  Well,  maybe  I  want  you.'* 

"  Maybe?  "  Darby  sat  up  in  bed.  "  How'd  you  know 
where  to  find  me?  "  he  .asked. 

Allen's  smile  was  still  amiable,  but  underneath  it,  Darby 
knew,  was  a  sneer.  "  Little  boys  shouldn't  ask  foolish 
questions,"  he  replied.  Then  suddenly  he  leaned  forward 
until  his  big  gross  face  was  hardly  six  inches  from  the 
face  of  Darby.  All  amiability  vanished  from  his  ex- 
pression. 

"  Where's  Montreal  Sammy,"  he  asked. 

Darby  understood  the  "  maybe  "  that  had  been  in  Al- 
len's speech  a  moment  ago.  He  simulated  a  prideful  in- 
dignation, 

"  Who  you  think  you're  talkin*  to  ?  "  he  demanded. 
"I  ain't  no  stool." 

"  No  ?  "  Allen  leaned  back  now  and  laughed.  "  Well, 
that's  a  good  one.  Not  a  stool."  He  ceased  laughing, 
and  his  voice  was  heavy  with  threat.  "  Why,  what  else  are 
you,  you  cheap  yegg?  As  if  any  crook  in  the  world 
wouldn't  squeal  on  his  own  mother1  to  save  himself! 
Where's  Montreal  Sammy?  " 

"  In  Sing  Sing,  ain't  he?  "  countered  Darby. 

Allen  nodded  heavily,  after  the  fashion  of  one  who 
accepts  a  situation,  even  though  the  situation  be  not  en- 
tirely to  his  liking. 

"  All  right,  feller ;  have  it  your  way.    Get  up  and  dress." 

"  Oh,  I  ain't  finished  my  beauty  sleep,"  said  Darby. 

"  Now,  ain't  that  too  bad?  "  commiserated  Allen.  He 
stared  at  the  crook.  "  Especially  as  you  need  about  a 
million  years  of  beauty  sleep,  ,and  I  ain't  sure  that  even 
then  —  He  broke  off  to  laugh  at  his  own  not  too 

nimble  wit. 

He  gathered  the  folds  of  the  bedclothes  in  one  big  hand ; 


88  THE  DAY  OF  FAITH 

the  blankets  swished  through  the  air  and  fell  upon  the 
floor,  exposing  Darby  almost  completely  dressed. 

"  Come  along,"  ordered  Allen. 

"  Now,  looka  here,"  protested  Darby.  "  You  ain't  got 
a  thing  on  me,  and ; 

The  grin  of  Allen  was  ferocious  now.  "  Ain't  I  ?  Wait 
and  see,  sucker.  Who  was  in  Mendel's  warehouse  three 
months  ago  ?  " 

"  Three  months  ago  !  "  Darby's  jeering  laugh  was  not 
quite  convincing,  however. 

"  Yup.  Three  months  ago,"  repeated  Allen  imper- 
turbably.  "  But  maybe  you  got  failin'  memory,  Darby. 
All  right.  Who  was  in  Bernstein's  store  last  night  ?  " 

"  Last  night?  "    Darby  was  dazed,  whipped,  beaten. 

"  I  said  last  night,"  said  Allen.  "  Why,  you  poor 
bimbo,  Bernstein  telephoned  at  seven  this  morning.  I 
was  there  in  ten  minutes ;  by  half-past  seven  I've  rounded 
up  a  coupla  people  that  seen  you  in  the  neighborhood  last 
night  —  where's  Montreal  Sammy?" 

"  What's  he  got  to  do  with  Bernstein's  store?  " 

"  That  ain't  bothering  me.  Don't  let  it  bother  you. 
I  don't  care  if  he  busted  Bernstein's  place  or  not.  Bern- 
stein didn't  lose  any  dough,  anyway.  He'll  forget  all 
about  it.  And  I'll  forget  all  about  you." 

There  was  no  loyalty,  save  that  dictated  by  self-interest, 
in  the  soul  of  Yegg  Darby.  Of  course  he  didn't  believe 
that  Allen  could  prove  anything  about  last  night's  at- 
tempt at  robbery,  but  that  Mendel  warehouse  matter  — 
He  didn't  know  that  any  one  knew  of  his  connection  with 
that  affair.  Allen  was  shrewd,  merciless.  The  plain- 
clothes  man  had  waited  until  he  wanted  something. 

"  You  see,  Darby,"  went  on  the  detective,  "  you're  small 
fish.  Out  of  luck,  too.  You  didn't  get  anything  at  Men- 
del's; you  got  nothing  last  night.  I've  always  had  my 
eye  on  you." 


THE  DAY  OF  FAITH  89 

"  You  can't  prove  a  thing  on  me  about  last  night.  I 
don't  even  know  what  store  you  mean,"  declared  Darby. 

"  Maybe  so ;  maybe  not  so ;  I  won't  argue.  But  the 
Mendel  matter  — sucker,  I  can  put  you  away  for  five  years 
just  as  easy.  Now,  you  be  a  good  boy.  I'd  have  been 
around  before,  knowing  you  and  Montreal  used  to  be  pals, 
only  we  got  a  straight  tip  that  Sammy  was  out  of  the 
country.  We  got  that  from  another  pal  of  his.  That 
pal,"  he  put  in  parenthetically,  "  will  get  his  one  of  these 
bright  days.  Well,  anyway  —  one  of  the  people  that 
mentioned  seeing  you  near  Bernstein's  last  night  described 
your  companion." 

He  lighted,  with  ostentatious  carelessness,  a  black 
cigar. 

"Well,  what'll  it  be,  Darb}7?  Come  through  or  go 
through?" 

Now,  Darby  had  never  yet  worn  justly  that  odious 
appellation  of  "  squealer."  He  didn't  want  to  wear  it 
now.  And  so  he  put  his  hand  up  to  his  bewildered  fore- 
head, to  try,  perhaps,  to  rub  decision  into  his  harried 
brain.  His  fingers  touched  his  bruised  ear. 

Why,  Montreal  Sammy  was  no  pal  of  his !  Montreal 
Sammy  had  busted  him  one  last  night  and  had  wanted  to 
bust  him  another. 

He  "  came  through." 

Allen  rose  heavily  from  the  bed.  "  Much  obliged, 
Darby.  Well,  I  guess  that'll  be  all.  Watch  your  step, 
kid." 

He  sauntered  out  of  the  room,  hiding  his  elation.  For 
the  capture  of  Montreal  Sammy,  an  escaped  Sing  Sing 
"  lifer,"  meant  a  great  deal  to  Allen.  It  might  mean  a 
sergeantcy.  What  a  wise  one  he'd  been  to  withhold  arrest 
of  Yegg  Darby ;  just  as  he'd  always  known,  the  crook  had 
proved  useful. 

Half  a  block  away  from  the  Hendricks  Foundation  he 


90  THE  DAY  OF  FAITH 

hesitated ;  but  only  momentarily.  He  did  not  lack  cour- 
age ;  he  had  his  pistol  with  him ;  he  could  handle  a  dozen 
Montreal  Sammies.  There  was  no  sense  in  splitting  the 
glory. 

But  he  didn't  need  his  weapon ;  the  capture  of  Montreal 
Sammy  was  in  no  sense  of  the  word  dramatic,  although  it 
was  strange. 

For,  as  Allen  opened  the  unlocked  door  of  the  Hendricks 
Foundation  he  came  face  to  face  with  Sammy,  who  was 
just  emerging  from  the  main  hall,  by  way  of  the  kitchen, 
where  he  had  breakfasted.  And  such  a  breakfast !  It  had 
been  served  to  him  by  a  colored  cook,  and  her  sniffs  of 
disdain  proved  no  interference  with  Sammy's  appetite. 

He  had  awakened  rather  late  and  at  first  had  difficulty 
in  placing  his  surroundings.  And  when  he  had  placed 
them,  when  he  had  remembered  and  gone  over  all  the  inci- 
dents of  the  previous  night,  he  still  had  difficulty  in  realiz- 
ing that  he,  Montreal  Sammy,  had  participated  in  those 
incidents. 

Why  hadn't  he  grabbed  the  money  and  fled?  He  didn't 
know.  He  only  knew  that  if  the  money  were  still  down- 
stairs he  would  not  take  it  now.  Yet  he  hadn't  reformed. 
As  he  dressed  his  mind  was  occupied  with  pleasant 
thoughts  of  a  cheap  jewelry  store  which  did  a  thriving 
business.  He  knew  the  make  of  safe,  too.  He'd  had  no 

luck  last  night,  but  this  night He'd  dig  up  Darby, 

square  it  for  the  wallop  on  the  ear Darby  certainly 

had  looked  funny  as  he  went  down.  Spraying  water  upon 
his  face,  Montreal  Sammy  noticed  himself  in  a  mirror  in 
the  bathroom  so  close  to  his  room.  Some  chest;  some 
arm !  Why,  if  he  put  his  weight  behind  a  punch  he  would 
knock  Darby  so  far  that  he  couldn't  telephone  back. 

The  colored  woman  had  detained  him  as  he  tiptoed 
downstairs.  She  disapproved  of  her  job;  disapproved  of 
her  mistress ;  she'd  arrived  this  morning  and  she  expected 


THE  DAY  OF  FAITH  91 

to  quit  her  job  this  afternoon.  But  meanwhile  she'd  do 
as  she  was  told.  And  the  mistress  who  had  engaged  her 
at  an  employment  bureau  yesterday  had  opened  the  door 
for  her  an  hour  or  so  ago,  and  had  told  her  that  a  guest 
upstairs  was  probably  still  sleeping,  and  that  he  must  be 
given  breakfast  before  he  left. 

So  grumblingly,  disdainfully,  the  cook  had  served  him, 
wondering  if  this  was  one  of  the  persons  whom  she  must 
think  was  perfect,  and  telling  herself  over  and  over  again 
that  as  soon  as  her  new  mistress  returned,  she'd  tell  her  to 
engage  some  one  else.  She  herself  didn't  care  about  this 
place;  sort  of  a  crazy  place  it  must  be;  a  place  where 
you  had  to  say  some  foolish  words  before  you  came  in. 
However,  Sammy  didn't  know  her  feelings,  nor  would  he 
have  cared  had  he  been  aware  of  them. 

He  strolled  from  the  kitchen,  picking  his  teeth  in  a 
fashion  that  he  conceived  to  be  quite  man-of-the-worldly ; 
he  glanced,  as  he  passed  through  the  main  hall,  at  the  pile 
of  money  still  upon  the  table.  He  hesitated  only  a  mo- 
ment. He  shrugged  his  shoulders  in  bravado.  He 

wouldn't  take  it,  just  to  spite Spite  whom?  He 

didn't  know.  And  it  was  while  still  in  perplexity  over  the 
question  that  he  stepped  into  the  entrance  hall  and  came 
face  to  face  with  Allen. 

For  the  briefest  fraction  of  a  second  fright  held  Mon- 
treal Sammy ;  it  vanished ;  he  never  knew  where  it  went  to. 
He  only  knew  that  he  grinned  at  the  plain-clothes  man 
and  said:  "Well,  I  suppose  you're  looking  for  me?" 
He  had  forgotten  all  about  the  jewelry  store  with  its  easy 
safe. 

Allen  eyed  him ;  he  withdrew  his  hand  from  his  pocket, 
where  it  had  clutched  the  butt  of  a  gun.  "  Well,  it's  like 
old  times,  roundin*  you  up,  Montreal." 

Sammy  nodded.  "  Uh-huh."  He  and  Allen  were  old 
acquaintances.  "  Well,  let's  go,"  he  said. 


92  THE  DAY  OF  FAITH 

"  In  a  hurry  to  get  back  to  the  old  hoosegow,  eh?  Well, 
why  rush?  I'd  like  to  look  around  a  bit,  Sammy."  He 
stared  at  his  captive.  "  Funny  place  to  find  you,  Sammy. 
A  religious  dump,  eh?  Did  they  convert  you,  feller?  " 

Sammy  grinned  sheepishly.  "  Nothin'  like  that,  Allen. 
Let's  go,"  he  insisted. 

"I'd  kind  of  like  to  talk  with  the  woman  that  runs  this 
place,"  said  Allen. 

"Aw,  she's  out  somewhere.  Why  bother  her?"  said 
Sammy.  He  felt,  oddly,  a  strange  unwillingness  to  let 
Jane  Maynard  see  him  led  away  by  an  officer  of  the  law. 
A  queer  pride ;  one  that  he  did  not  comprehend. 

Allen  frowned  in  puzzlement.  Of  course  Montreal 
Sammy  was  yellow;  he  should  have  known  that  he'd  sur- 
render without  a  protest.  But  still  —  he  was  too  acquies- 
cent. And,  looking  over  Sammy's  shoulder,  toward  the 
table  in  the  main  hall,  Allen  thought  that  he  understood 
this  amazing  meekness.  "Huh?  "  he  chuckled.  "Got  a 
slant  at  me  coming  and  dropped  the  kale,  eh?  " 

"  What  kale?  "  demanded  Sammy. 

"  Quit  kiddin'.  The  money  on  the  table  —  now  we  witt 
wait  for  the  lady.  Get  her  to  make  the  charge  —  not  that 
there's  any  charges  needed  to  put  you  back  in  your  coun- 
try place  up  the  river,  but  just  for  luck." 

He  heard  steps  outside  and  threw  open  the  door  to 
confront  the  woman  who,  he  knew,  was  the  sponsor  for 
this  new-fangled  house  of  religion. 

Jane  entered  with  a  welcoming  smile.  "  A  friend  of 
yours  ?  "  she  asked  Sammy. 

Sammy  grinned  sheepishly.  "  Yes'm.  We're  goin*  for 
a  little  walk." 

"A  nice  little  walk,  lady,"  said  Allen.  "To  police 
headquarters." 

Over  the  girl's  face,,  flushed  from  her  walk,  came  a  look 


'  • 


THE  DAY  OF  FAITH  93 

of  comprehension  and  commiseration.  Impulsively  she 
held  out  her  hand  to  Sammy. 

"  Don't  be  afraid,"  she  said.  "  Nothing  can  hap- 
pen- -" 

She  paused,  incapable  of  further  speech.  She  had 
planned  no  future  for  Sammy ;  in  the  vastness  of  the  idea 
that  she  felt  she  was  beginning  to  grasp,  such  mundane, 
sordid  things  as  policemen,  jails,  and  the  like  held  no 
place. 

Allen  grinned.     "  No,  I  guess  nothing  can  happen  to 

him.     Not  for  the  rest  of  his  life.     It's  back  to  Sing  Sing 

—  I  guess,  lady,  you  ought  to  be  more  particular  about 

the  people  you  let  in  here.     You  didn't  happen  to  know 

this  gentleman's  name,  did  you?    Or  his  business?  " 

"  Why  certainly,"  she  said. 

Montreal  Sammy  made  a  sudden  move  toward  her;  his 
fingers  went  to  his  lips  ;  his  right  eye  closed  in  an  elaborate, 
cautioning  wink.  She  paid  no  attention  to  him. 

"  He  is  named  Montreal  Sammy,  and  he  is  a  professional 
burglar,  who  recently  escaped  from  Sing  Sing.  I  saw  him 
the  day  he  escaped ;  I  showed  him  where  to  hide." 

Allen  gasped.     "  You  —  what?  " 

"  Showed  him  how  to  get  away,"  she  declared. 

Sammy  groaned.  Allen  stared  at  her,  ugly  lines  show- 
ing about  the  corners  of  his  mouth. 

"  An  escaped  convict,"  said  Allen,  "  and  you  knew  it, 
and  yet  helped  him  get  away.  Could  I  ask  what  you  was 
plannin'  to  do  with  him  here?  " 

"  I  hadn't  planned  anything  at  all,"  replied  Jane. 

"  Well,  it  would  have  been  wiser  if  you  had,"  stated 
Allen.  "  You  might  have  planned,  for  instance,  to  get 

him  out  of  sight You  come  along  too,"  he  said 

harshly. 

"  With  you?  "     Jane  stared  at  him.     "  Why?  " 

"  I'm  thinkin'  maybe  headquarters  will  be  interested  to 


94  THE  DAY  OF  FAITH 

know  that  there's  a  new  underground  railway  for  helping 
prisoners  escape,  started  up  in  this  town,"  said  Allen 
grimly. 

"  Aw,  hold  your  horses,  Allen,'*  said  Sammy  scornfully. 
"  Can't  you  see  she's  kiddin'  you?  "  Again  he  winked 
at  Jane. 

She  understood  now.  Of  course  there  was  a  law  against 
aiding  escaped  criminals,  but  —  there  were  other  laws, 
laws  that  transcended  the  man-made  kind.  "  I'll  go  with 
you  —  gladly,"  she  said. 

Two  hours  later  Montreal  Sammy  was  on  a  train, 
heavily  ironed,  on  his  way  to  Sing  Sing.  And  Jane  May- 
nard  was  facing  a  magistrate.  She  had  given  her  name 
and  pedigree  as  the  clerk  of  the  court  asked  for  it.  A 
dozen  reporters,  hastily  summoned  as  the  "  tip  "  was  given 
by  a  friendly  officer,  were  in  the  court  room. 

An  assistant  district  attorney,  pluming  himself  because 
his  name  would  be  in  to-morrow's  headlines,  had  stated  the 
charge  against  her,  that  of  aiding  and  abetting  in  the 
escape  of  a  convict.  He  asked  that  she  be  remanded  for 
trial  and  freed  only  upon  heavy  bail. 

"  For,  your  honor,"  he  said,  "  the  facts  that  this  woman 
is  of  unimpeachable  social  standing,  that  she  has  inherited 
great  wealth,  but  aggravate  her  offense.  No  one  has  more 
respect  for  religion  than  I  have,  but  my  respect  is  confined 
to  organized  religion.  If,  under  the  guise,  the  mere  name, 
the  mere  pretense  of  worthy  motives,  we  can  permit  the 
establishment  of  new  creeds  that  violate  the  law,  where  is 
our  society,  where  is  our  government,  where  is  our  coun- 
try?" 

He  was  a  young  man  given  to  impassioned  oratory. 
The  cynical  reporters  smiled,  but  it  made  good  copy. 

"  I  don't  think,"  said  the  judge  mildly,  "  that  the  situa- 
tion is  quite  as  black  as  you  paint  it.  I  am  not  inclined 
to  believe  that  Miss  Maynard  plans  ,a  rendezvous  for  es- 


THE  DAY  OF  FAITH  95 

caped  criminals.  I  would  like  to  hear  Miss  Maynard's 
story.  Miss  Maynard,  you  were  not  aware  that  this 
convict  was  an  escaped  criminal,  were  you?  " 

The  lawyer  hastily  retained  by  Morton  Anderson 
nodded  meaningly  at  her.  In  the  rear  of  the  court  room 
Morton  Anderson  himself  leaned  forward.  All  that  Jane 
had  to  do  was  deny  the  testimony  of  Plain-clothesman 
Allen,  and  the  judge  would  do  the  rest.  The  name  of 
Maynard  carried  too  much  weight  to  be  overbalanced  by 
the  testimony  of  any  policeman.  Besides,  the  judge  was  a 
warm  friend  of  Morton  Anderson. 

But  Jane  replied,  "  I  knew  all  that." 

The  judge  frowned.  "  Yet  you  sheltered  him?  You 
admit  that  Officer  Allen's  testimony  is  true?  " 

"  Absolutely  true,'*  said  the  girl. 

The  judge  took  off  his  glasses  and  wiped  them.  Why 
hadn't  Mort  Anderson  and  his  attorney  taken  her  in 
hand  and  ordered  her  what  to  say?  They  couldn't  blame 
him. 

"  Miss  Maynard,  may  I  ask  the  creed  of  this  —  this 
settlement  house  of  yours  ?  " 

"  '  My  neighbor  is  perfect,'  "  she  answered. 

The  judge  put  on  his  glasses.  "  And  in  pursuance  of 
that  creed  you  helped  this  —  this  Montreal  Sammy  to 
escape,  sheltered  him  last  night?  " 

She  nodded  in  assent.  His  frown  became  threatening. 
"  Miss  Maynard,  do  you  realize,  if  every  one  acted  upon 
your  theory,  what  would  happen  to  the  world?  " 

"  What  do  you  think  would  happen?  "  she  countered. 

"  It  would  become  anarchistic,  crazy,  insane !  Don't 
you  think  so?  " 

She  looked  at  him;  then  she  looked  at  the  reporters, 
their  pencils  suspended,  awaiting  her  reply. 

"  Why  no,"  she  answered.  "  I  think  it  would  become 
Christian." 


CHAPTER  X 

IT  is  a  world  which  believes  in  advertising.  Such  a 
world  is  apt  to  be  without  that  certain  nice  discrimination 
which  commends  itself  to  the  meticulous  mind.  "  I  don't 
care  what  they  print  about  me,"  said  the  wise  politician, 
"  so  long  as  they  print  it.'* 

The  actress  poses  in  corsets,  and  her  photograph  is 
spread  broadcast  in  the  public  prints.  It  may  be  that  she 
has  never  appeared  —  and  never  will —  upon  the  stage 
divested  of  corset-covering  gowns.  It  doesn't  matter ;  her 
name  and  likeness  have  been  given  publicity. 

She  may  lack  all  talent  save  the  ancient  one  of  interest- 
ing royalty.  Yet,  enlighten  the  world  as  to  the  details 
of  the  scandal,  and  her  salary  leaps  to  the  fourth  figure. 

Because  it  believes  in  advertising,  the  world  believes  in 
personality.  Whether  the  personality  be  interesting  or 
not  makes  no  difference.  Advertise  the  lecturer  as  the 
cleverest  man  in  the  world  and  the  mob  will  go  to  hear 
him.  Announce  him  as  the  stupidest  man  in  the  world  and 
tickets  will  be  at  a  premium. 

Notoriety  is  the  secret  of  success,  and  the  method 
whereby  the  notoriety  be  acquired  is  a  matter  of  no  mo- 
ment. A  statesman  becomes  a  world-wide  figure  because 
he  discovers  the  Ten  Commandments.  A  minister  packs 
his  church  because  he  discovers  that  sin  has  not  vanished 
from  the  world  and  declares  his  discovery  in  terms  of 
spicy  personal  reminiscence.  A  publicist  attacks  the  very 
rich ;  he  defends  the  very  rich ;  it  makes  no  difference ;  the 
result  is  the  same ;  he  gets  the  crowd. 

Jane  Maynard  learned  this  basic  truth  of  present  civ- 


THE  DAY  OF  FAITH  97 

ilization  — •  that  advertising  brings  success  —  on  the  day 
following  her  remarkable  statement  to  the  judge. 

In  despair,  hating  to  offend  so  distinguished  a  public 
figure  as  Morton  Anderson,  yet,  by  the  same  token,  hating 
also  to  offend  the  general  public,  he  remanded  Jane  for 
trial.  For,  although  she  was  the  daughter  of  distinguished 
ancestry,  to  discharge  her,  when  she  brazenly  flouted  the 
law,  was  too  much.  Privately,  a  little  later,  when  fixing 
the  amount  of  bail,  he  told  Anderson  that  he  himself 
should  have  appeared  in  Jane's  defense  and  not  delegated 
the  task.  To  which  Morton  Anderson  agreed.  But  he 
had  preferred  to  remain  somewhat  in  the  background, 
hoping  thus  to  avoid  a  distasteful  publicity.  Further,  he 
had  never  dreamed  that  Jane  would  do  otherwise  than 
deny,  in  toto,  the  testimony  of  Allen,  the  plain-clothes 
man. 

But  now  —  at  the  family  council  held  that  evening  — •- 
he  stated  his  opinion  flatly. 

"  She's  insane.  But  she's  been  discharged  from  a  sani- 
tarium, and  —  what  are  we  going  to  do  about  it?  We 
can't  let  her  go  to  jail " 

To  which,  of  course,  the  family  agreed.  Yet,  when  the 
next  morning,  Anderson,  carrying  a  bunch  of  newspapers, 
entered  the  Bland  Hendricks  Foundation,  he  found  a, 
singularly  unalarmed  niece. 

The  news  of  her  arrest,  and  the  reason  therefor,  had 
spread  over  Carey  Street  and  its  environs.  The  Founda- 
tion had  been  packed.  Those  who  had  come  the  night 
before  for  the  opening  returned;  they  had  brought  with 
them  their  friends  ;  other  curious  ones  had  entered. 

"What  was  the  game?"  one  asked  of  another.  Yet 
there  didn't  seem  to  be  any.  The  five  hundred  dollars  was 
still  on  the  table  in  the  main  hall.  It  was  there  when  the 
last  of  the  guests  had  departed ;  it  was  there  in  the  morn- 
ing when  Jane  came  downstairs,  to  eat  of  the  breakfast 


98  THE  DAY  OF  FAITH 

that  had  been  prepared  by  the  colored  cook,  who,  oddly 
enough,  had  not  quit  her  job.  Pressed  for  reasons,  the 
colored  woman  undoubtedly  could  have  given  none.  She 
seemed  to  have  lost,  somehow,  that  restlessness  of  her 
race.  Anyway,  she'd  try  it  another  day;  and  the  big 
crowd  that  came,  that  pressed  into  the  kitchen,  had  been 
enjoyable. 

Morton  Anderson  went  directly  to  the  point. 

"  Fve  had  the  office  arrange  with  the  district  attorney 
for  an  immediate  trial,  Jane.  Now,  Fm  going  to  take 
charge,  and  I  want  you  to  do  exactly  as  I  tell  you.  If 
you  do,  I  can  probably  get  the  indictment  dismissed.'* 

"  I  don't  want  it  dismissed,"  was  Jane's  amazing 
response. 

Her  uncle  stared  at  her.    "  Why  not  ?  " 

"  I'm  not  afraid  of  a  trial,"  she  replied. 

"  Aren't  you  afraid  of  jail?  "  he  demanded. 

"  I  won't  go  to  jail,"  she  retorted. 

He  eyed  her  pleadingly.  "  Jane,  don't  you  understand 
that  not  even  your  position,  my  reputation,  your  family 
—  that  those  things  don't  count  before  a  jury?  Have 
you  read  the  papers  this  morning?  " 

She  shook  her  head. 

"  Read  them,"  he  said  dryly. 

She  took  them  and  for  half  an  hour  she  said  nothing, 
as  she  ran  down  the  columns  of  the  daily  press. 

It  had  been  a  dull  day  for  news  yesterday,  and  so 
the  affairs  of  Jane  Maynard,  which  would  have  had  great 
news  value  at  any  time,  were  given  even  more  space  than 
might  have  been  accorded  them  on  another  day. 

"  A  New  Creed  " ;  "  Jane  Maynard  Aids  Escaped  Con- 
vict"; "Heiress  Released  on  Bail";  "Settlement 
House  Rendezvous  of  Thieves."  These  were  the  headlines, 
and  the  news  stories  beneath  them  were  no  less  calculated 
to  thrill  an  eager  public.  There  were  editorials,  too.  One 


THE  DAY  OF  FAITH  99 

dignified  journal  devoted  a  column  and  a  half  on  its  edi- 
torial page  to  a  discussion  of  what  it  termed  "  Spiritual 
Bolshevism,"  severely  arraigning  the  young  woman  who 
had  said  that  a  world  lost  to  all  sense  of  civic  responsibility 
would  be  a  Christian  world. 

She  smiled  as  she  put  the  last  paper  down.  Her  uncle 
saw  the  smile  and  rose,  raging,  to  his  feet. 

"  Jane,"  he  cried,  "  don't  you  take  this  thing  seri- 
ously?" 

She  shook  her  head,  still  smiling.  "  Not  at  all,  Uncle 
Mort." 

"  Do  you  know,"  he  said,  "  that  for  two  cents  I'd  forget 
that  you  were  my  niece  —  let  you  handle  this  thing  in 
your  own  way !  " 

She  looked  at  him,  still  smiling.  "  Why  don't  you, 
Uncle  Mort?  Why  should  you  worry  about  me?  " 

He  looked  at  her.  Slowly,  over  his  face  there  spread  a 
grin.  "  The  reason,  Jane,  is  that  our  family  has  been  so 
—  so  damned  respectable,  always.  Prosperous,  law-abid- 
ing, conscious  of  their  position  and  the  duty  that  position 
entails.  Jane,  when  I  was  a  little  boy,  I  wanted  to  be  a 
pirate.  My  father  made  a  lawyer  out  of  me.  I've  been 
successful,  but  as  a  pirate  I'd  have  left  a  name  that  would 
have  rung  down  the  ages.  Jane,  I'm  not  going  to  let  you 
go  to  j  ail  if  I  can  help  it,  but  —  I'm  glad  that  you  don't 
want  help.  You're  insane;  absolutely,  unequivocably 
crazy!  But  you  certainly  are  going  to  add  to  the  gayety 
of  nations,  and  you  certainly  are  giving  me  an  opportunity 
to  wage  vicarious  combat  against  the  forces  of  organized 
legality.  Jane,  I  hate  a  quitter.  You  won't  quit,  and  — 
I'm  proud  of  you." 

She  held  out  her  hand.  "  Uncle  Mort,  make  all  the 
excuses  that  you  want,  but  —  the  real  reason  is  that  you 
believe  in  what  the  papers  term  my  new  religion.  Isn't 
that  the  truth?  " 


100  THE  DAY  OF  FAITH 

He  colored.  "  Not  a  bit  of  it ;  I  think  that  every  man, 
instead  of  being  a  potential  angel,  is  a  potential  devil, 
but  —  I  like  new  things,  and  —  and  — and  "  —  his  face 
grew  fiery  now  as  he  picked  up  the  dignified  journal  that 
had  spoken  of  "  Spiritual  Bolshevism  "  —  "I  know  the 
blackguard  that  wrote  that  article!  A  damn'  miserly, 
lecherous  pup  that  hates  everything  decent  privately  and 
publicly  poses  as  a  champion  of  all  goodness !  Why, 
there's  more  decency,  more  Christianity  in  what  you  pro- 
claim than  there  is  in  all  the  buncombe  that's  being 
preached  to-day  all  over  the  world." 

He  wiped  his  suddenly  perspiring  forehead  with  a  hand- 
kerchief. The  girl  stared  at  him. 

"  Why,  Uncle  Mort,  you  do  believe  it." 

He  met  her  glance.  He  shook  his  head.  "  Not  its 
practicality,  my  dear,  but  —  there's  been  too  damned 
much  practicality  in  this  world  of  ours.  And  —  I  backed 
you  with  five  hundred  dollars  —  I'll  back  you  with  more." 

A  gleam  of  mischief  showed  in  her  eyes.  "  What  will 
the  family  say,  Uncle  Mort?  " 

"  The  family,"  he  said  with  great  dignity,  "  are  to 
know  nothing  of  my  private  views,  Jane.  Before  them  I 
shall  be  what  I  have  always  been  —  an  upholder  of  the 
law.  But  before  you  —  my  God,  a  man  ought  to  have  a 
little  fun  in  his  life.  Bring  on  your  thieves,  Jane.  I  want 
~to  meet  a  few  of  them." 

She  shook  her  head.  "  There  aren't  any,  Uncle  Mort. 
We  only  think  there  are." 

"  Sure,"  he  chuckled.  "  Only  let  me  have  the  fun  of 
thinking  so.  I  hate  to  believe  that  every  one  is  a  poor- 
spirited  worm  like  myself,  afraid  to  grab  anything  ex- 
cept through  legally  established  methods.  I'll  be  around 
to-night.  And  —  I'll  rush  that  trial  through,  Jane. 
And  —  let  me  defend  you." 


THE  DAY  OF  FAITH  101 

She  smiled  once  more.  "I  won't  need  any  defense, 
Uncle  Mort." 

Oddly,  practical  man  of  the  law  that  he  was,  he  won- 
dered how  much  truth  there  was  in  her  assertion.  But 
she  wouldn't  go  to  jail  —  oh,  no.  Not  while  Morton 
Anderson  knew  a  few  tricks. 

Outside,  he  mopped  his  forehead  again.  He  stood  a 
moment  on  the  sidewalk,  staring  at  the  doorway,  at  its 
legend,  "  My  neighbor  is  perfect."  Certainly,  he  had 
not  come  down  here  with  any  intention  of  backing  Jane  in 
her  insanity.  .  He  had  come  to  command,  plead,  dissuade. 
And  he  had  departed  leaving  encouragement  behind 
him!  He  was  a  hard-headed,  extremely  practical  man.. 
Why  had  he  confessed  to  this  niece  of  his  that  hampered- 
ambition  of  youth?  Why?  He  was  ashamed  of  himself.. 
And  because  he  was  ashamed  he  sought  for  justification. 

Well,  aside  from  the  fact  that  she  had  sheltered  an 
escaped  convict,  what  had  Jane  done  that  was  so  awfully 
wrong?  Even  the  matter  of  Montreal  Sammy.  My 
word,  when  you  came  right  down  to  it,  to  show  pity, 
charity,  wasn't  a  moral  offense,  was  it?  Of  course,  there 
was  the  law.  But  all  law  was  supposed  to  be  founded  on 
morality.  Hadn't  Jane  a  great  Example  when  she  showed' 
charity?  Morally,  there  was  nothing  wrong  with  her 
stand.  He  didn't  attend  the  Foundation  that  night,  how- 
ever. He  was  facing  a  private  battle  of  his  own,  and  he 
wanted  to  fight  it  out  in  private. 

But  the  rest  of  the  world,  all  of  it  that  could  crowd' 
itself  into  the  small  building,  came  to  Carey  Street  that 
night.  Jane  Maynard  was  the  new  sensation.  A  rich- 
girl  —  public  opinion  decided  that  she  had  inherited  mil- 
lions—  a  beauty,  a  social  favorite,  with  a  dramatic  past 
recently  behind  her,  with  the  papers  playing  her  up  as 
the  feature  news  item  of  the  day  —  curiosity  seekers; 
could  not  refrain  from  visiting  the  place. 


102  THE  DAY  OF  FAITH 

But  they  went  away  more  or  less  disappointed.  They 
had  come  as  people  visit  the  opium  dens  of  Chinatown,  in 
search  of  sensation.  They  found  none  here.  Instead 
they  found  an  orderly  throng,  whose  like  might  have  been 
found  anywhere  in  the  city,  differentiated  only,  perhaps, 
by  a  certain  placidity  that  was  quite  different  from  what 
one  had  a  right  to  expect  from  people  of  the  slums,  of  the 
criminal  underworld. 

And  that  ridiculous  statement  which,  as  a  svne  qua, 
non  of  admission,  one  was  compelled  to  repeat.  It  was 

silly,  absurd,  grotesque,  and  yet Those  boisterously 

inclined  felt  a  certain  weight  pressing  upon  them  that 
prevented  their  spirits  from  asserting  that  ebullience  which 
they  had  intended.  The  place  was  —  eery. 

The  money,  weighted  down  by  a  book,  upon  the  table  in 
the  main  hall  —  the  fact  that  these  poor  people  seemed, 
if  a  little  ill  at  ease,  quite  evidently  not  beggars.  After 
all,  when  you  analyzed  the  thing,  it  wasn't  a  crime  to  think 
well  of  your  neighbor.  The  papers  had  jumped  all  over 
a  girl  who  was  —  well,  a  peach ;  nothing  less.  Smiling, 
cheerful,  gracious  sort  of  peach,  too.  She  welcomed  a 
tatterdemalion  with  the  same  air  that  she  greeted  a  patent 
millionaire.  And  when  supplies  of  food  ran  out,  she  sent 
a  man,  whom  every  one  recognized  as  a  former  governor, 
a  howling  swell,  too,  out  to  a  corner  delicatessen !  And 
he  went,  grinning  broadly.  It  was  a  social  function, 
nothing  less.  It  was  something  to  remember,  having 
seen,  hand  in  hand  with  people  who  were  obviously  of  the 
gutter,  people  of  position,  people  whose  names  and  pic- 
tures were  often  in  the  society  columns. 

Interesting,  in  that  way,  but  —  not  sensational.  Thus 
the  judgment  of  the  herd.  But  the  newspaper  men  saw 
it  differently.  They  saw  this  gathering  at  the  Bland 
Hendricks  Foundation,  upon  the  day  following  Jane's 
hearing  before  the  judge,  as  a  great  story.  Here  was  a 


THE  DAY  OF  FAITH  103 

girl  under  indictment  who  was  brazenly  flaunting  herself 
before  the  public,  in  defiance  of  its  opinion.  For  the  news- 
papers had  rendered  opinion  and  believed  that  opinion  to 
be  the  public's. 

Carefully  they  observed  all  that  went  on.  True,  the 
money  on  the  table  remained  intact;  the  Carey  Street 
people  who  came  apparently  asked  for  nothing,  even 
brought  their  own  refreshments.  But  —  that  meant 
nothing  except  careful,  almost  brilliant,  stage  manage- 
ment. There  was  a  scheme  behind  it  all.  And  what  was 
the  scheme? 

They  got  an  inkling  of  it  late  in  the  evening  when  a 
police  officer  arrived.  He  asked  for  Jane  and  was  greeted 
cordially  by  her.  And  in  the  hearing  of  several  reporters 
he  said,  shamefacedly,  "  I  took  Montreal  Sammy  up  the 
river  yesterday,  Miss  Maynard.  He  sent  you  a  message ; 
I  couldn't  get  around  yesterday,  or  sooner  to-day." 

"  What  was  it?  "  Jane  asked. 

The  officer  colored  embarrassedly.  "  He  said,  ma'am, 
that  he  counted  on  you  to  get  him  out  of  jail." 

There  was  a  silence  among  the  newspaper  men  who 
overheard  the  remark,  as  they  waited  for  Jane's  answer. 
It  came,  a  smiling,  confident  reply : 

"  Thank  you,  officer,"  she  said.    "  I'll  get  him  out." 

That  was  a  flat  statement ;  something  on  which  you 
could  pin  a  storys  something  that  explained  all  this  hocus- 
pocus,  all  this  carefully  stage-managed  appearance  of  love 
and  confidence  that  filled  the  Foundation.  Under  indict- 
ment, awaiting  trial,  the  girl  stated  that  she  would  get 
Montreal  Sammy  out  of  jail.  And  he  was  a  "  lifer." 

It  proved  that  she  planned  something  subversive  of  the 
best  interests  of  the  State ;  something  in  defiance  of  law 
and  order.  And  yet,  while  one  was  in  the  room,  in  the 
building,  one  couldn't  feel  positive  of  this :  one  only  felt  it 


104  THE  DAY  OF  FAITH 

after  one  was  outside,  away  from  the  hypnotic  —  that  was 
it,  hypnotic  —  atmosphere  of  the  place. 

And  so  the  reporters  advertised  the  Hendricks  Founda- 
tion the  next  day.  A  storm  of  criticism  burst  upon  the 
mistress  of  the  new  settlement.  She  had  given  a  basis  for 
attack ;  she  had  stated  flatly  her  intention.  Of  course,  it 
was  a  ridiculous  intention,  one  impossible  of  fulfillment,  so 
long  as  there  were  laws  and  men  to  uphold  them,  but  the 
more  insane  a  defier  of  the  law  is,  the  more  dangerous  he, 
or  she,  is. 

But  criticism  was  advertising.  On  the  next  night  the 
throng  that  strove  for  admission  into  the  Foundation  ex- 
tended for  blocks  in  either  direction  from  the  door.  It 
was  a  novelty,  it  was  a  well-advertised  novelty ;  also,  there 
Imd  been  word-of-mouth  advertising,  the  best  kind  of  all. 
And  it  differed,  strangely  enough,  from  the  newspaper 
versions.  Its  gist  was  that  the  girl  was  a  harmless  maniac, 
a  lovely  girl,  with  a  queer  obsession  about  the  goodness  of 
everyone  in  the  world,  and  —  the  funny  thing  was  that 
while  you  were  in  the  building  you  believed  it. 

So,  until  the  day  of  the  trial,  it  continued.  From  Fifth 
Avenue,  and  from  the  dingiest,  most  remote  section  of  the 
slums,  people  came.  They  came  because  it  was  some  sort 
of  free  show ;  they  came  to  scoff ;  but,  oddly  enough,  they 
did  their  scoffing  outside.  While  inside  the  building  they 
were  queerly  affected. 

Everything  in  the  building  was  free;  true,  there  was 
little  there,  but  —  that  five  hundred  dollars  in  perfectly 
good  bills  was  there.  Any  one  could  take  it ;  yet,  no  mat- 
ter what  one's  poverty,  one  felt  no  inclination  to  take 
any  of  it.  And  if  one  were  a  prosperous  person,  who  had 
come  down  there  to  take  this  money  as  a  joke,  one  lost 
one's  sense  of  humor  immediately  one  had  uttered  the 
phrase  whereby  one  gained  admission. 

It  was   a  miracle;  nothing  less.     So  the  newspapers 


THE  DAY  OF  FAITH  105 

called  it.  For  their  attitude  had  subtly  changed  in  a  few 
days.  The  newspaper  men  could  not  come  into  daily  con- 
tact with  Jane  Maynard  without  coming  to  the  conclusion 
that  she  had  no  deep  scheme ;  she  was  a  "  nut  " ;  but  a 
perfectly  harmless  and  charming  one. 

They  were  sorry  for  her;  sorry  that  she  must  face  a 
jury  trial.  Assisting  in  a  convict's  escape  from  jail  was  a 
serious  charge.  They  could  see  no  method  where  she 
could  "  beat  "  the  charge.  And  yet,  when  her  case  was 
called  a  few  days  later,  the  sympathy  of  the  reporters 
was  with  her.  So  was  that  of  the  general  public.  So,  it 
seemed,  was  that  of  the  jury. 

For,  when  she  refused  to  take  the  stand,  and  the  prose- 
cution's case  closed,  the  jury,  without  leaving  the  box, 
brought  in  an  immediate  verdict  of  "  Not  Guilty." 

Morton  Anderson,  who  had  argued  and  reasoned  with 
Jane  again  and  had  been  compelled  to  offer  no  defense  at 
all,  was  stunned.  He  had  hoped  for  a  suspended  sentence ; 
had  been  prepared  to  carry  the  case  to  the  highest  court. 
And  it  wasn't  necessary.  The  jury  had  looked  upon  the 
girl,  heard  the  plain  evidence  of  her  flagrant  offense,  and 
had  let  her  go. 

Why?  Because  she  was  charming,  lovely?  He  didnt 
believe  it.  Other  charming  and  beautiful  women  had  been 
found  guilty  by  juries  and  sent  to  jail  for  lesser  offenses 
than  Jane's. 

Why,  then?  A  million  people  asked  the  question.  The 
foreman  of  the  jury  answered  it  in  a  public  statement. 
For  the  judge,  offended  that  his  instructions  to  bring  in 
a  verdict  of  guilty  had  been  disobeyed,  called  the  foreman 
of  the  jury  before  him. 

"  On  what  ground  do  you  render  this  absurd  verdict?" 
he  demanded. 

The  foreman  passed  a  hand  over  his  forehead.  "  I 
dunno,  your  honor,"  he  said,  "  unless  she  hypnotized  us." 


CHAPTER  XI 

HYPNOTISM!  Ah,  that  was  something  that  could  be 
"understood."  For  had  not  novels,  plays,  and  films  re- 
peatedly informed  the  world  that  hypnotism  was  an  exist- 
ing, definite  thing?  That  no  one  understood  what  hyp- 
notism really  meant  did  not  matter.  As  one  explains  cer- 
tain natural  phenomena  by  the  word  "  electricity ,"  and 
satisfies  one's  auditors,  although  neither  the  teller  nor 
the  told  even  vaguely  comprehends  what  electricity  is,  so 
the  foreman's  word  solved  the  puzzle  of  Jane  Maynard. 

Persons  who  had  experienced  the  strange  sensation  of 
placidity  that  enveloped  them  when  they  entered  the 
Foundation,  and  perhaps  who  had  heard  or  read  of  that 
strange  sensation,  now  thought  that  they  comprehended 
the  whole  matter.  Further,  the  girl,  though  apparently 
quite  normal,  had  been  confined  in  some  sort  of  an 
asylum  or  other.  Persons  who  are  not  quite  masters  of 
themselves  are  popularly  credited  with  certain  uncanny 
powers.  One  not  mistress  of  oneself  can  be  mistress  of 
others.  An  absurdity,  but  ninety  per  cent,  of  popular 
belief  is  built  on  no  more  stable  foundation  than  an  .ab- 
surdity. And  this  belief  became  general. 

It  was  acceptable  because  it  stopped  thought.  The 
public  hates  to  think.  With  a  vague  word  or  phrase 
nonunderstandable  things  are  made  apparently  compre- 
hensible. The  public  rarely  insists  upon  the  question 
"Why?" 

And  so,  because  the  matter  was  settled,  Jane  Maynard 
was  no  longer  a  sensation.  Hypnotism  was  something 
one  accepted.  Let  it  go  at  that!  Although  the  judge's 


THE  DAY  OF  FAITH  107 

scathing  condemnation  of  the  foreman's  explanation 
aroused  some  newspaper  interest,  and  though  certain 
popularly  esteemed  scientists  gave  out  interviews  on  the 
verdict,  the  public  at  large  lost  interest. 

Which  pleased  Jane.  Notoriety  was  not  a  thing  that 
pleased  her.  She  had  opened  the  Foundation  without 
the  thought  entering  her  head  that  notoriety  would 
follow.  And  when,  a  few  days  after  her  discharge  from 
court,  the  newspapers  ceased  to  comment  upon  her,  she 
felt  a  vast  relief.  For  now  the  Foundation  could  function, 
as  it  could  not  when  every  evening  brought  a  throng  of 
visitors  who  came  merely  from  curiosity. 

And  now  that  the  newspaper  talk  had  ceased,  outsiders 
did  not  come.  Only  those  of  that  slum  district  in  which 
she  had  settled  dropped  in  at  night.  They  came  in  in- 
creasing numbers.  And  each,  as  he  or  she  entered,  re- 
peated the  phrase  that  was  printed  above  the  door. 

Trouble  seemed  to  drop  from  their  bent  shoulders. 
Unhappy  people,  crowded  into  noisesome  tenements,  be- 
came human  beings  here.  And  they  asked  no  charity. 
There  was  food  there,  in  the  Foundation,  but  they  brought 
it  themselves,  for  the  most  part. 

It  was  from  the  lips  of  John  Anstell  that  Jane  learned, 
for  the  first  time,  exactly  what  she  was  doing,  what  she 
was  accomplishing. 

The  Andersons  were  a  proud  folk.  They  would  pri- 
vately oppose  and  condemn  the  actions  of  one  of  their 
own,  but  publicly  they  would  lift  their  eyebrows  at  the 
slightest  hint,  from  an  outsider,  that  one  of  the  clan  had 
done  anything  worthy  of  the  slightest  criticism. 

Jane,  their  niece  and  cousin,  had  been  tried  in  a  com- 
mon court  for  the  commission  of  a  felony.  She  had  been 
discharged,  as  the  result  of  a  most  amazing  verdict.  Of 
course,  the  Andersons  —  all  except  Morton,  perhaps  — • 
would  have  thought  it  only  "  refined  "  of  Jane  if  she  had 


108  THE  DAY  OF  FAITH 

disappeared  from  New  York.  But  when  she  made  it 
evident  that  she  intended  remaining  there,  intended  con- 
tinuing this  queer,  uncanny  sort  of  settlement  work,  the 
Andersons  rallied  behind  her. 

So  it  was  that  Jane  attended  a  dinner-dance  at  the 
Anderson  home.  Young,  vital,  as  exquisite  upon  the  dance 
floor  as  she  was  sturdy  upon  the  golf  links,  dancing  was 
as  much  a  part  of  her  life  as  it  was  the  part  of  any 
young  woman  of  her  social  sphere.  She  adored  it,  to 
quote  herself. 

The  dinner  itself  was  a  comparatively  small  affair,  of  a 
dozen  couples,  most  of  them  of  middle  or  old  age,  of  un- 
impeachable position.  But  the  dance  that  followed,  and 
that  was  held  in  the  Morton. Anderson  ballroom,  was  an 
affair  of  seventy-five  couples.  Here  were  the  younger  set, 
the  set  to  which  Jane,  by  right,  belonged.  And  if  a 
debutante's  shoulder  shrugged,  or  a  youth  grinned,  it 
didn't  matter.  Jane  was  accepted,  as  though  the  past 
few  months  and  the  present  had  no  existence.  An  Ander- 
son or  a  Maynard  had  a  right  to  be  crazy  or  eccentric, 
had  a  right,  indeed,  to  do  anything  except  lose  his  money. 

And  it  was  between  dances,  some  time  after  midnight, 
that  Jane  met  John  Anstell.  She  was  a  very  human  girl ; 
she  had  refused  a  duke;  nevertheless  she  felt  a  certain 
thrill  when  one  of  her  cousins  presented  young  Anstell. 

A  personable  enough  youth,  with  fair  hair  and  good 
strong  features,  and  a  well-set-up  body,  he  danced  a  bit 
better,  perhaps,  than  any  man  who  is  not  a  professional 
has  a  right  to  dance.  Jane  became  aware  of  that  in  the 
first  few  strides  they  took  together. 

But  it  was  not  because  of  his  terpsichorean  ability,  nor 
because  of  anything  that  was  part  of  himself,  that  she 
thrilled.  She  thrilled  because  he  was  the  son  of  Michael 
Anstell. 

For  Michael  Anstell  was  the  richest  man  in  the  world. 


THE  DAY  OF  FAITH  109 

There  could  be  no  dispute  about  that  statement.  There 
was  hardly  an  industry  of  any  importance  in  the  United 
States  in  which  Michael  Anstell  had  not  his  finger.  Eur- 
ope, South  America,  Africa,  Asia  —  in  all  of  these  conti- 
nents Michael  Anstell  had  interests. 

Modern  civilization  has  produced  nothing  stranger, 
nothing  more  important  in  the  final  summing  up  of  the 
age,  than  the  billionaire.  For  every  scientific  discovery, 
every  invention,  every  device  that  is  calculated  to  free 
mankind  from  economic  servitude  has  but  the  more  tightly 
welded  upon  mankind  the  chains  of  slavery.  For  the 
simple  reason  that  men  like  Michael  Anstell  have  secured 
possession  of  these  devices.  A  railroad  frees  a  nation 
from  the  necessity  of  remaining  forever  in  one  spot.  A 
Michael  Anstell  seizes  the  railroad.  The  new  device  has 
become  essential  to  modern  civilization;  modern  civiliza- 
tion pays  tribute  to  the  Anstells. 

Nor,  despite  the  cries  of  those  dissatisfied  with  economic 
conditions,  is  the  thing  wrong.  The  baby  must  learn  the 
use  of  his  limbs  before  he  can  be  trusted  to  depend  upon 
them.  Society  is  always  in  a  stage  of  infancy,  acquiring 
new  things  the  use  of  which  must  be  demonstrated  by  the 
strong.  The  baby  outgrows  his  nurse ;  surely  will  a  race 
outgrow  its  lords  and  masters. 

The  son  of  the  richest  man  in  the  world!  Since  time 
began  the  possession  of  things  that  one's  neighbors  lack 
has  marked  the  possessor  for  envy,  for  admiration.  A 
monarch  holds  his  place  by  the  whim  of  his  people ;  but  a 
billionaire  holds  his  place  by  virtue  of  laws  that  are 
statutory,  but  that  have  come  to  seem  economic.  A  rev- 
olution will  displace  a  king ;  but  only  a  spiritual  cataclysm 
can  displace  the  billionaire. 

The  most  securely  placed  person  in  the  world,  the  bil- 
lionaire. For  the  king  may  lose  his  throne;  the  singer 
may  lose  her  voice;  the  poet  his  imagination;  the  artist 


110  THE  DAY  OF  FAITH 

his  deftness  of  hand.  But  the  billionaire  is  as  stable  as 
the  Rock  of  Gilbraltar.  Civilization  is  founded  upon  prin- 
ciples that  protect  him ;  only  his  own  rashness,  his  own 
foolishness,  may  displace  him.  And  after  his  fortune 
has  reached  a  certain  point,  it  automatically  protects 
him  against  himself. 

There  was  none  of  the  snob  in  Jane  Maynard.  But 
she  was  human,  normal.  Wherefore  she  reacted  to  the  evi- 
dent interest  in  her  of  3Toung  Anstell. 

For  that  he  was  interested  would  have  been  patent  to 
any  girl  at  all  versed  in  the  ways  of  men  with  maids. 
And  Jane  had  never  lacked  attention.  So,  when  he  came 
to  claim  a  second  dance,  and  suggested  that  they  sit  it 
out  together,  she  agreed.  He  fetched  an  ice  and  in  a 
corner  of  the  library,  off  the  ballroom,  they  sat  and 
talked. 

"  Do  you  know,"  he  demanded,  "  what  you're  doing 
down  on  Carey  Street?  " 

She  shot  a  sidewise  glance  at  him.  His  tone  might 
possibly  have  been  censorious,  accusatory. 

"  Well,  what  have  I  been  doing?  "  she  countered. 

"  I'm  interested  —  a  little  —  in  charities,"  he  stated. 

She  nodded.  She  knew  that  one  great  charitable  or- 
ganization drew  most  of  its  subsistence  from  the  Anstell 
fortune. 

"  You've  been  abolishing  poverty,"  he  said. 

She  smiled.  "  Hardly  anything  as  great  as  that,  Mr. 
Anstell." 

"  I'm  serious,"  he  said.  "  Of  course,  permanency  is 
something  that  —  that  only  permanency  can  assure,  but 
—  in  the  last  fortnight  we  have  found  that  requests  for 
aid  from  the  Carey  Street  section  have  diminished  over 
ninety  per  cent.  That's  why  I  came  here  to-night." 

"  To  admonish  me  ?  "  she  laughed. 

He  shook  his  head.     "  To  talk  with  you.     Further  — 


THE  DAY  OF  FAITH  111 

in  the  fortnight  before  you  opened  your  Foundation, 
there  were  ninety-three  arrests,  for  various  causes  — 
mostly  crimes  of  minor  violence.  In  the  fortnight  follow- 
ing the  opening,  there  were,  in  that  neighborhood,  exactly 
fourteen  arrests  for  that  sort  of  violation  of  the  law. 
What  do  you  make  of  it?  " 

She  laughed.    "  I  don't  know." 

He  eyed  her.  "  You  don't  think  your  Foundation  re- 
sponsible? " 

"  How  can  I  claim  such  credit  for  it  ?  There  is  no 
proof." 

"  What  do  you  think?  "  he  asked. 

"I  don't  even  think.  I  hope  — that's  all,"  she  told 
him. 

"And  just  what  do  you  hope?  "  he  asked. 

She  looked  at  him;  unconsciously  she  drew  a  long 
breath.  Upon  her  lovely  face,  a  moment  ago  alight  with 
excitement  from  the  dance,  settled  a  look  of  perplexity. 
"  If  you  want  the  truth  —  I  don't  even  know  that,"  she 
replied.  "I  —  I'm  doing  something,  Mr.  Anstell.  But 
what  Fm  doing,  and  why  — — -  " 

"You  don't  know?" 

She  shook  her  head. 

"  Yet  you  preach  —  a  sort  of  creed,"  he  ventured. 

"A  —  sort  of  one,"  she  admitted.    "  But " 

"Do  you  believe  it?"  he  demanded. 

"Believe  it?  "  She  looked  at  him  vaguely,  her  gray 
eyes  clouded  in  perplexity. 

He  nodded.  "  Do  you,  for  instance,  believe  that  I,  John 
Anstell,  am  perfect  ?  " 

Suddenly  she  smiled.  "  You  dance  perfectly,  Mr. 
Anstell." 

He  frowned  slightly.     "  Please  be  serious  with  me." 

She  became  suddenly  mocking.     "  Why  —  with  you?  " 

"  Because  —  Miss  Maynard,  you  know  who  and  what 


112  THE  DAY  OF  FAITH 

I  am.  My  father's  son.  The  ought-to-be  successor  to  his 
work.  But  in  reality  —  you  know  what.'* 

"  No,  I  don't,"  she  replied. 

"  Well,  it's  sweet  of  you  not  to  phrase  it,"  he  said.  "  A 
wastrel,  an  idler  —  because  I  don't  care  about  my  father's 
money;  because  I  really  don't  care  much  if  he  loses 
most  of  it." 

"  Most  of  it?  "  she  asked. 

He  grinned.  "  I  wouldn't  want  him  to  lose  all.  Playing 
at  work  —  I  can  at  least  make  an  occasional  pretense. 
But  to  be  compelled  to  for  my  living  —  I  wouldn't  like 
that." 

She  stirred  uneasily.  She  was  of  that  age  when  serious 
conversation,  at  dances,  at  any  rate,  is  shunned.  It  was 
enough  to  be  serious  down  on  Carey  Street ;  to  be  serious 
at  this  function  to-night 

"  You  malign  yourself,  Mr.  Anstell.  You  say  that  you 
are  an  idler  —  yet  you  seem  to  know  about  —  things 
down  on  Carey  Street." 

He  shrugged.  "  My  father  exacts  a  certain  obedience. 
He  finances  a  charity  organization  —  he  wants  to  know 
the  results.  He  shifts  me  about  to  suit  his  pleasure  — 
not  that  I'm  condemning  father.  Lord,  no !  I  am  an 
undutiful  son,  but  —  he's  all  right.  But  my  happening 
to  know  about  the  charity  and  police  reports  is  due  to 
the  fact  that  I'm  spending  a  few  hours  daily  at  the  charity 
headquarters  —  sheerest  accident.  Come  back  to  my 
question.  Do  you  think  I'm  perfect  ?  " 

It  was  not  the  best-mannered  question  that  had  ever 
been  put  to  her.  Yet  she  had,  in  a  way,  laid  herself 
open  to  rudeness.  If  one  adopts  an  eccentric  way  of 
living,  or  even  way  of  thinking,  one  must  expect  a  certain 
lack  of  suavity  in  others. 

She  had  been  thinking,  when  definitely  she  thought  at 
all  about  the  Foundation  to  whose  establishment  and 


THE  DAY  OF  FAITH  113 

maintenance  she  was  committed,  in  terms  of  Montreal 
Sammy  and  the  like.  To  see  these  as  perfect.  But  her 
social  equals,  the  persons  with  whom  she  must  have  certain 
relationships  that  lacked  the  paternalism  —  or  maternal- 
ism  —  of  her  attitude  toward  the  derelicts  of  the  world, 
were  something  different. 

She  became  suddenly  conscious  of  the  fact  that  this  im*- 
pertinent  question,  put  by  a  good-looking  youth  to  whom 
she  was  attracted,  was  making  her,  for  the  first  time, 
reduce  that  abstract  formula  of  hers  to  something  con- 
crete. Was  she  a  hypocrite?  Was  she,  indeed,  hypnotized 
by  her  own  words  ?  She  had  smiled  amusedly  at  the  fore- 
man's statement  in  court;  she  had  been  amused  at  the 
newspaper  decision  that  she  undoubtedly  had  exerted 
some  mental  influence  upon  the  jury.  But  now  —  just 
how  far  did  she  believe  in  her  creed,  that  creed  which  was 
printed  above  the  doorway  of  the  Foundation,  whose  four 
simple  words  must  be  uttered  by  every  one  who  sought 
admittance? 

At  last,  after  weeks  of  mental  bewilderment,  weeks  in 
which  she  had  sometimes  thought  of  herself  as  whimsical, 
sometimes  —  a  little  affrightedly  —  as  being  guided  by 
the  spirit  of  a  person  dead,  and  sometimes  as  perhaps, 
after  all,  no  more  sane  than  some  people  thought  her, 
she  suddenly  knew  that  she  believed !  Haziness  left  her ; 
mental  chaos  became  reduced  to  orderliness;  she  looked 
sanely,  clearly,  upon  the  world. 

"  I  do  indeed,  Mr.  Anstell,"  she  told  him.  "  I  believe 
you  are  perfect." 

He  stared  at  her.  His  good-humored  face  suddenly 
colored;  yet,  although  he  blushed,  he  grinned,  too.  And 
before  she  could  guess  his  purpose,  his  hand  went  around 
her  waist,  he  drew  her  to  him,  and  he  kissed  her. 

For  a  moment  she  lay  quiescent  in  his  arms;  then, 
slowly,  she  released  herself.  He  had  expected  instant 


THE  DAY  OF  FAITH 

struggle,  instant  indignation ;  instead  he  was  met  with  a 
calm  dignity  quite  different  from  what  he  had  expected. 

"  Why  did  you  do  that?  "  she  demanded. 

He  tried  to  be  brazen.  "  You  can't  mind  being  kissed 
by  a  perfect  man,  Miss  Maynard,"  he  said.  Yet  the  humor 
left  his  heart. 

She  shrugged.  "  I  don't  suppose  that  I  ought  to,  Mr. 
Anstell.  Perhaps  —  it  is  because  I  am  not  perfect  my- 
self." 

But  within  her,  though,  with  the  aplomb  of  modern 
youth  that  refuses  to  concede  that  any  act  can  make  it 
lose  its  self-possession,  she  was  apparently  calm,  she  was 
a  burning  flame  of  wrath.  To  be  kissed  was  nothing  ter- 
rible ;  no  pretty  girl  may  entirely  avoid  it ;  but  to  be  kissed 
sneeringly,  contemptuously She  felt  no  wrath  to- 
ward him ;  only  a  wrath  for  herself,  a  blistering  and  with- 
ering self-contempt  that  she  was  the  kind  who  could  be 
subjected  to  such  insult. 

He  leaned  toward  her ;  it  had  piqued  him  that  so  pretty 
and  charming  a  girl  should  leave  the  environment  to  which 
she  was  so  suited  for  a  slum  district  like  Carey  Street. 
Before  he  met  her,  he  had  decided  that  all  the  tales  of 
her  good  looks  were  false;  no  pretty  girl  could  condemn 
herself  to  religious  nonsense.  And  so  he  had  made  sport 
of  her. 

But  the  touch  of  her  lips  upon  his  own  had  had  that 
peculiar  effect  which  even  the  advance  of  modern  science 
has  been  unable  to  explain  by  other  than  such  vague 
phrases  as  "  race  impulse  "  and  the  like.  He  suddenly 
felt  ashamed  of  himself,  sorry,  wanting  to  ask  forgiveness. 

"  That  was  rotten  of  me,"  he  said.  "  I  shouldn't  have 
done  it.  I  —  I'm  sorry,  Miss  Maynard." 

She  smiled;  it  was  a  faintly  quavering  smile.  No  one 
had  kissed  her  mockingly  before.  Many  a  man  had 


THE  DAY  OF  FAITH  115 

pleaded  for  the  favor  of  her  lips;  a  few  had  stolen  the 
favor;  none  had  sneered  at  her. 

"  It  doesn't  matter,"  she  said.    "  Shall  we  —  go  in?  " 

She  rose,  but  stubbornly  he  remained  seated.  "  Miss 
Maynard,  if  we  go  in  there  now  "  —  he  nodded  toward 
the  dancing  floor  —  "  you  won't  speak  to  me  again ;  you'll 
think  that  I  always  —  Miss  Maynard,  can  I  —  is  there 
any  way  that  I  can  —  well,  square  it?  " 

She  looked  at  him ;  on  her  lips  still  hovered  that  faintly 
tremulous  smile,  a  smile  that  made  him  want  to  grovel  at 
her  feet.  She  held  out  her  hand.  What  a  silly  matter! 
To  feel  a  grievance  because  a  young  man  jeered  at  her. 
She  laughed  inwardly  at  herself. 

"  You  may  square  it,"  she  said,  "  by  taking  me  home." 

"  You'll  let  me?  "  he  stammered. 

"  I  want  you  to,"  she  told  him. 

Now,  men  are  subjected  in  various  ways;  some  by 
wrath ;  some  by  surrender ;  and  some  by  a  handsome  gen- 
erosity. It  was  this  latter,  joined  to  many  other  things, 
such  as  frank  gray  eyes,  masses  of  brown  hair,  a  lithe 
and  lovely  figure,  that  subdued  John  Anstell.  He  had 
come  caddishly ;  what  had  inspired  him  to  his  insolence 
he  did  not  know ;  he  only  knew  that  he  was  ashamed,  that 
he  was  not  the  sort  of  man  who  insulted  pretty  girls,  and 
that  he  wanted  her  to  know  it.  He  didn't  know  that  he 
could  no  more  have  helped  kissing  her  than  he  could  have 
stemmed  Niagara's  torrent.  For  we  think  that  we  are 
rude,  bold,  when  we  are  slaves  to  impulses  older  than 
civilization.  We  think  that  we  are  cads,  when  we  are 
thralls  of  motives  that  make  races.  It  would  never  occur 
to  him,  because  he  was  a  simple,  frank  soul,  that  she  might 
have  resisted  the  kiss  earlier ;  it  never  occurred  to  her  that 
she  might  have  done  so.  She  also  was  a  pawn  in  a  game 
bigger  than  herself,  a  game  that  Nature  plays. 

And  so,  gravely,  having  left  the  dance  long  before  its 


116  THE  DAY  OF  FAITH 

ending,  they  went  down  into  the  slums  together.  But 
five  blocks  from  Carey  Street  a  policeman  halted  them. 
They  descended  from  the  car  to  find  themselves  on  the 
outskirts  of  an  anguished  mob,  who  vainly  stormed  the 
police  lines  beyond  which  were  engines,  hose  carts,  and 
all  that  paraphernalia  wherewith  man  fights  the  flames. 
For  the  whole  neighborhood  was  ablaze.  All,  except,  as 
the  policeman  informed  them,  one  house  —  the  Hendricks 
Foundation,  which  was  almost  unsinged. 

"  A  plain  miracle,  ma'am,  nothing  less,"  said  the  officer. 

That  was  what  the  papers  called  it  in  the  morning.  A 
miracle!  The  first  victory,  though  Jane  did  not  know 
it,  in  the  conquest  of  the  world  1 


CHAPTER  XII 

A  MIEACLE  !  Back  in  the  dim  ages  man  fought  for  his 
livelihood  in  response,  so  science  tells  us,  to  the  impulse 
for  self-preservation.  His  gnawing  stomach,  his  parched 
throat,  his  shivering  limbs :  these  are  the  things  that 
impelled  him  to  battle,  struggle,  against  beasts  of  the 
forest,  against  nature,  and  against  his  own  kind. 

But  one  travels  back  to  the  primal  impulse,  listens  to 
science,  and  turns  away,  unconvinced. 

Why  did  man  not  do  as  other  beasts,  succumb  to  each 
attack,  existing  only  by  mere  chance,  as  other  beasts 
existed?  Was  it  because  he  possessed  some  gleam  of  rea- 
soning power,  or  was  it  because  there  was  in  his  soul  some 
consciousness  of  the  fact  that  he  was  made  in  the  image 
of  his  Maker ;  and  did  he  feel  that  because  of  the  likeness 
he  was  compelled  to  preserve  himself,  perpetuate  himself? 
Was  he,  unknown  to  his  mentality,  fulfilling  a  spiritual 
obligation? 

For,  from  the  very  beginning,  man  seems  to  have  been 
conscious  of  some  ruling  power  above  himself,  some  power 
that  is  stronger  than  the  bodily  appetite.  And  so,  be- 
cause he  was  conscious  of  that  power,  he  attributed  to  it 
the  reason  for  those  things  which  he  did  not  understand. 
And  by  and  by  he  came  to  call  them  miracles. 

Anything  which  violated  the  natural  laws,  as  man  un- 
derstood those  laws,  became  miracles.  But  what  was 
miraculous  yesterday  is  the  commonplace  of  to-day. 
What  violated  natural  law  a  decade  ago  supports  it 
to-day. 

And  so,  if  one  understands  that  every  act  has  an  ex- 


118  THE  DAY  OF  FAITH 

planation,  there  are  no  miracles.  There  are  things  that 
we  do  not  understand,  but  that  they  are  supernatural  is 
absurd.  Indeed,  there  is  nothing  supernatural ;  there  are 
things  beyond  our  present  understanding,  but  nothing 
beyond  our  future  understanding. 

But  the  newspapers  chose  to  call  the  sparing  by  the 
flames  of  the  Hendricks  Foundation  a  miracle. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  even  when  the  extremely  practical 
chief  of  the  Fire  Department  pointed  out  that  the  lack  of 
height  of  the  Foundation  had  caused  the  flames  to  leap 
across  it,  from  one  tall  tenement  to  another,  the  public 
and  papers  still  believed  that  something  greater  than 
natural  laws  had  prevented  destruction  of  the  building. 

For  another  few  days  the  press  kept  Jane  in  the  public 
eye.  Then,  because  other  extraordinary  events  attracted 
attention,  she  was  again  temporarily  forgotten. 

As  for  Jane  herself,  she  was  content  to  accept  the  fire 
chief 's  explanation.  Miracle  or  not  —  it  didn't  matter. 
There  were  homeless  to  be  sheltered  and  hungry  to  be  fed. 
Toward  these  works  she  bent  her  energies,  her  time,  and 
her  money. 

It  was  a  frightful  scene  of  devastation  and  agony  upon 
which  she  and  John  Anstell  had  entered  when  the  name  of 
Jane  Maynard,  coupled  with  the  policeman's  recognition 
of  Anstell,  passed  them  through  the  fire  lines. 

It  had  been  one  of  those  incredibly  swift  conflagrations 
that  seem  to  burn  themselves  out  by  their  own  ferocity,  as 
anger  sometimes  ceases  because  the  human  heart  can 
stand  no  more  emotion. 

Like  a  new  broom,  the  blaze  had  swept  clean.  Where 
had  stood  tall,  unsightly,  dingy  tenements  werei  now 
ashes  and  charred  debris.  But  these  ruins  were  less 
offensive  than  what  had  been  before.  And  it  was  toward 
the  replacement  of  this  wreckage  that  Jane  turned  her 


THE  DAY  OF  FAITH  119 

efforts  when  the  first  few  days  of  caring  for  the  immediate 
needs  of  the  homeless  had  passed. 

New  York  is  the  most  charitable  city  in  the  world. 
Like  an  overgrown,  immature  child  is  New  York.  It  can 
be  brutal,  cold,  cruel  —  because  it  is  thoughtless.  But 
it  can  be  as  impulsively  generous  as  that  child.  It  was  so 
now;  the  homeless  of  the  Foundation  neighborhood  were 
taken  care  of.  Oddly,  there  was  never  an  application  for 
shelter  in  the  Foundation  itself  that  could  not  be  granted. 
The  few  bedrooms  that  were  there  proved  ample.  She 
had  told  her  uncle  that,  some  time  ago,  not  knowing  how 
soon  her  words  would  be  put  to  the  proof.  Yet,  for  some 
reason  that  she  did  not  analyze,  the  poor  of  the  neigh bor- 
hood  did  not  flock,  as  might  have  been  expected,  to  the 
Carey  Street  house.  At  a  time  when  its  facilities  might 
have  been  overtaxed,  it  was  as  though  facilities  had  been 
expanded.  Yet  they  had  not.  This,  perhaps,  was  the 
real  miracle. 

Another  was  the  attitude  of  John  Anstell.  He  had  not 
been  generous  in  his  estimate  of  himself  as  he  had  given 
it  to  Jane.  Nor,  perhaps,  had  he  understated  the  facts 
too  greatly.  A  likable,  pleasant  young  fellow,  with  more 
than  his  share  of  brains,  he  had  never  used  those  brains. 
But  now,  during  these  days  of  rehabilitation  of  the  fire 
sufferers,  he  showed  himself  possessed  of  an  executive 
ability  that  attracted  the  attention  of  his  father.  The 
newspapers 'had  not  hesitated  to  couple  the  name  of  the 
billionaire's  son  with  that  of  the  girl  who  had  figured  so 
frequently  in  the  press  of  late.  It  made  good  reading, 
even  though  there  was  no  implication  of  romance  in  the 
stories. 

For  he  raised  money ;  he  arranged  for  the  turning  over 
of  an  armory  for  the  shelter  of  the  homeless;  he  set  to 
work  those  agencies  of  charity  which  his  father  controlled. 
And  the  papers  praised  him. 


120  THE  DAY  OF  FAITH 

Old  Michael  Anstell  read  —  and  was  pleased.  Also  he 
was  puzzled.  During  a  college  course,  during  the  few 
years  that  had  elapsed  since  his  graduation,  young  Anstell 
had  shown  nothing  of  his  father  in  him.  At  least,  so 
Michael  Anstell  thought.  For  it  had  been  the  old  man's 
ambition  to  set  his  son  securely  in  his  place,  that  the 
piling  up  of  millions  might  not  hesitate  even  for  a  single 
moment. 

But,  instead,  his  son's  ambition  had  been  to  scatter  the 
millions.  Not  that  he'd  been  a  spendthrift,  but  he'd  seen 
no  particular  use  in  further  accumulation.  It  was  differ- 
ent now,  mused  the  old  man,  reading  the  clipping  which 
his  secretary  gave  him.  And  so  he  sent  for  his  son. 

Their  greeting  was  affectionate  enough.  The  old  man, 
in  a  furtive  way,  loved  his  son.  John  was  openly  admiring 
toward  his  father.  But  there  had  never  been  between 
them  any  of  that  parental  and  filial  warmth  which  com- 
pensates some  others  for  their  lack  of  millions. 

A  billionaire  has  little  time  for  the  amenities.  Michael 
Anstell's  information  concerning  his  son  came  not  from 
personal  acquaintance  and  observation,  but  from  formal 
reports  that  had  been  drawn  up  by  nurses,  governesses, 
tutors,  college  professors,  employees  under  whom  John  had 
started  his  financial  career.  Flesh  of  the  same  flesh,  they 
were  strangers. 

Nevertheless,  because  John  had  been  showing  some  exec- 
utive ability,  Michael  Anstell's  hopes  for  a  successor  to 
his  own  career  suddenly  revived.  He  received  his  son 
in  an  interval  between  directors'  meetings.  They  shook 
hands  formally  and  John  remained  standing. 

"  Sit  down,  John,"  said  his  father. 

The  younger  man  sat  down. 

"  Nice  weather,"  commented  Michael. 

John  grinned.  Always,  when  the  two  met,  there  was 
that  atmosphere  of  constraint,  of  mutual  embarrassment, 


THE  DAY  OF  FAITH  121 

that  was  indicated  by  preliminary  remarks  upon  the 
weather  or  some  other  banal  topic. 

"  Glad  you  approve  of  it,  father,"  he  said. 

The  bushy  brows  of  Michael  Anstell,  that  in  moments 
of  complete  relaxation  almost  met,  now  drew  together. 
His  lips  pursed  slightly.  He  never  fully  understood  this 
son  of  his.  There  seemed  to  him,  frequently,  to  be  a 
certain  jocosity  that  hinted  of  disrespect  in  his  son's 
manner  and  speech. 

"  My  approval,"  he  said  stiffly,  "  has  nothing  to  do 
with  the  weather." 

"  You  concede  that,  eh?  "  asked  John. 

But  his  impertinence  was  robbed  of  offense  by  the 
boyish  grin  that  accompanied  it. 

His  father  smiled  faintly,  but  the  world  really  was  too 
serious  a  place  for  smiles.  There  were  billions  of  money 
in  the  world  that  did  not  belong  to  Michael  Anstell; 
there  were  coal  mines,  oil  fields,  steamship  lines,  railroads, 
ranches,  factories  that  belonged  to  other  people.  In  the 
time  that  one  spent  in  relaxing  in  a  smile,  one  might  make 
money ;  the  concentration  of  one's  mind  was  seriously 
interrupted  if  one  permitted  one's  thoughts  to  dwell  upon 
humorous  matters.  For  the  matter  of  that,  there  was 
nothing  humorous  in  the  world  anyway.  To  his  son, 
though,  he  would  make  concessions.  Hence  the  slight 
twisting  of  his  lips. 

"  Getting  better  reports  about  you,  John,"  said  the 
old  man. 

The  young  man  eyed  the  elder.  His  gaze  traveled  over 
the  semibald  head,  over  the  face  with  the  strong,  hooked, 
knife-edged  nose,  the  broad  nostrils,  the  thin  wide  mouth, 
the  lean  pointed  chin,  the  wrinkled  throat  with  its  pro- 
truding Adam's  apple,  the  well-set-up,  still  vigorous  body. 

John  sighed  faintly.  "  Father,"  he  said  quietly,  "  why 
take  other  people's  reports  about  me?  Why  not  get  ac- 


122  THE  DAY  OF  FAITH 

quainted  with  me  and  find  out  for  yourself?  It  might  be 
interesting  —  for  both  of  us." 

The  older  man  colored  faintly.  "  Been  reading  the 
papers.  Found  out  more  about  you  in  the  last  week  than 
all  the  tutors  and  secretaries  I've  ever  had  could  tell  me." 
His  voice  was  gruff,  and  came  queerly  from  that  lean 
throat.  One  expected  a  shrill  and  quavering  tone;  one 
heard  instead  a  heavy  bass  voice.  The  voice  matched 
the  deeds  of  the  man,  not  the  physique. 

"  I'm  glad  that  you  like  what  you've  found  out, 
father,"  said  John. 

The  old  man's  eyes  were  suddenly  piercing.  "  How  in- 
timate are  you  with  that  Maynard  girl,  John?  " 

"  Miss  Maynard?  "  The  son  smiled.  "  I  don't  believe 
that  I'm  as  close  to  her  now  as  I  was  the  first  time  I  met 
her,  father.  Why?  " 

Michael  Anstell  leaned  back  in  his  chair  and  brought 
the  tips  of  his  fingers  together.  "  I  ain't  interfered  — > 
much,  have  I,  John  ?  " 

The  young  man  shook  his  head.  "  Not  nearly  so  much 
as  you  would  have  been  quite  right  in  doing,  father,"  he 
said  frankly. 

"  Never  whined  around  when  you  went  through  the 
show-girl,  cocktail  phase,  eh,  son  ?  " 

Young  Anstell  shook  his  head.  It  was  his  turn  to 
color  now,  and  he  did  so. 

"  Never  objected  to  any  reasonable  amount  of  hell- 
raisin*,  eh?  No,  I  didn't.  You  know  it.  When  I  got 
reports  that  you  weren't  any  twin-six  in  the  jobs  I've  set 
you  I  never  bawled  you  out.  Gave  you  plenty  of  money, 
eh,  son?  " 

"  You've  been  very  generous,  father." 

"  Thought  you'd  say  so.  Never  kicked  about  any- 
thing. You  admit  it.  All  right,  I'm  going  to  do  a  little 
kicking  now." 


THE  DAY  OF  FAITH  123 

John  sat  down.  He  put  his  elbows  on  his  father's 
desk. 

"  Shoot,"  he  said. 

"  You  don't  seem  worried,"  said  his  father. 

The  boy's  grin  was  broad.  "  Well,  it  may  help  in 
getting  acquainted,  father." 

"  You  seem  to  harp  on  that  subject,  son,"  said  the  old 
man.  "  Just  remember  something.  I've  had  pretty  im- 
portant work  on  my  hands  since  long  before  you  were 
born.  This  getting  acquainted  is  all  right  —  wish  it 
could  have  been  done  —  but  no  son  of  mine  is  a  sentimental 
fool ;  he  ought  to  understand  —  well,  what  I'm  kicking 
about  is  this :  Leave  the  Maynard  girl  alone." 

A  casual  observer  would  have  thought  that  the  young 
man  received  the  advice,  or  warning,  as  equably  as  he 
would  have  received  word  that  some  one  wanted  him  on 
the  telephone.  But  his  father  was  no  casual  observer 
to-day.  He  noted  the  sudden  narrowing  of  his  son's 
eyes,  the  faint  whitening  of  his  knuckles  as  his  hands 
clenched. 

"What  do  you  mean  —  leave  her  alone?"  demanded 
John. 

"  What  I  say.     You  heard  me." 

"Yes,  perfectly,"  was  the  reply.  "  But  —  do  you  thor- 
oughly understand  just  what  sort  of  girl  Miss  Maynard 
is?" 

"  That's  why  I'm  telling  you  to  leave  her  alone." 

"  Then  suppose,"  ventured  John,  "  that  you  tell  me 
what  sort  you  think  her?  You  know,  of  course  —  you've 
been  reading  the  papers,  you  say  —  that  her  family  is  as 
good  as  any  in  America ;  that  she  herself " 

"  Is  crazy,"  interrupted  Michael. 

"  You  haven't  talked  with  her,  father,"  said  the  son. 
The  tension  of  his  fingers,  the  narrowing  of  his  eyes,  were 
gone  now.  He  smiled  confidently. 


THE  DAY  OF  FAITH 

"  Don't  have  to,"  said  the  old  man. 

*'  Let  me  tell  you  about  her,"  suggested  John. 

"  You've  heard  my  orders,"  said  Michael. 

"  Orders?  As  strong  as  all  that,  father?  I'm  of  age, 
you  know." 

"  I  know  all  about  that,  John.  Listen  to  me :  the  news- 
papers have  been  filled  with  talk  about  you  and  this  girl 
—  how  you're  working  together  to  rehabilitate  Carey 
Street " 

"  Any  harm  in  that  ?  "  demanded  his  son. 

"  Not  a  bit.  Don't  I  support  a  few  charities  my- 
self? " 

"  You  do.    I've  wondered  why  —  often,"  said  John. 

"  Then  you  got  less  sense  than  I  gave  you  credit  for," 
said  the  old  man.  *'  You  ain't  watched  my  career  for 
the  past  twenty  years.  About  then  I  got  tired  of  the 
papers  hammering  me  all  the  time." 

*'  So  you  bought  some  papers,  eh?  "  smiled  John. 

His  father  nodded ;  again  he  almost  paid  the  utterance 
the  tribute  of  a  smile.  "  Couldn't  buy  them  all,  son.  But 
a  million  invested  in  charity  will  keep  two  million  dollars' 
worth  of  bad  advertising  out  of  the  papers.  You  know, 
if  a  man  gives  a  lot  of  money  to  help  the  poor,  it  ain't 
reasonable  to  suppose  that  he  robs  the  poor,  eh?  Besides, 
I  make  my  charities  efficient.  They  help  to  do  away  with 
poverty.  My  charity  concerns  look  out  for  jobs  for  the 
poor.  But  never  mind  all  that.  You've  been  looking  over 
the  organization  —  you  see  what  it  does ;  maybe,  in  spite 
of  the  fact  you  just  wondered  why  I  maintained  it,  you 
guessed  the  reason." 

"  I  did  —  in  a  way.  But  I  didn't  like  to  think  that 
I'd  guessed  rightly,"  said  John. 

"  And  that's  another  reason  I  want  you  to  keep  away 
from  this  Maynard  girl.  Ideas.  A  woman  can  put  more 


THE  DAY  OF  FAITH  125 

dam'fool  ideas  in  a  man's  head  than  twenty  surgeons  can 
extract.  You  going  to  cut  her  out?  " 

John  smiled  again.  "  She  relies  on  me  —  in  a  way, 
father.  You  wouldn't  want  me  to  cut  her  out,  as  you  put 
it,  right  away?  " 

The  old  man  leaned  across  the  desk.  "  You  ain't  gone 
and  got  yourself  engaged  to  her  —  no  nonsense  like  that, 
eh?" 

"  She  wouldn't  have  me,  I'm  afraid,  father,"  was  John's 
reply. 

The  old  man  laughed.  "  Refuse  an  Anstell?  Guess 
again,  son.  She'd  jump  at  you." 

"  You  don't  know  her,  father,"  said  John. 

"  No,  and  I  don't  want  to.  She's  crazy.  All  this  sappy 
stuff  she's  spreading — it's  bad  business.  The  papers 
ought  not  to  print  it.  Wrong  idea  —  entirely.  Make 
loafers  of  people  —  bums,  tramps  !  Crazy  woman's  idea. 
Ain't  she  been  in  an  asylum?  "  he  asked  sharply. 

"  In  a  rest  cure,"  admitted  John. 

"  Same  thing.     Cut  her  out.     Hear  me?  " 

"  I  hear  you,  father." 

"  Well  —  going  to  obey  me  ?  " 

John  grinned.     "  Do  you  really  expect  me  to,  father?  " 

Old  Anstell  curtly  rang  a  bell.  "  That'll  be  all  for 
to-day,  John." 

"  You  haven't  mentioned  your  will,  father,  and  you 
haven't  said  a  word  about  discontinuing  my  allowance  — 
nothing  of  that  sort." 

"  Ain't  going  to,"  said  his  father.  "  Always  play  fair 
with  you,  John.  Just  wanted  to  find  out  if  you  were  in 
love  with  this  crazy  woman." 

"  Well,  did  you?  "  asked  John. 

"  I  said  that  was  all,  son,"  said  Michael  Anstell  as  he 
turned  to  the  secretary  who  had  answered  his  ring. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

MICHAEL  ANSTELL  did  not  understand  his  son;  to  him- 
self he  conceded  that.  The  concession  was  accompanied 
by  no  regret.  He  was  a  busy  man,  with  a  tremendous 
work  still  ahead  of  him.  If  some  one  had  asked  him  what 
the  great  work  was  all  about,  what  it  led  to,  he  would 
have  been  unable  to  answer  coherently.  But  he  would 
have  felt  that  his  questioner  was  an  imbecile. 

For  he  had  reached  that  stage  in  achievement  when  he 
had  begun  to  think  of  himself  as  one  divinely  appointed 
to  stewardship  of  the  world  and  the  things  thereof.  He 
knew  that  there  must  be  a  reason  for  everything,  a  cause, 
or  a  purpose.  But  he  did  not  apply  this  knowledge  to 
himself.  Perhaps,  if  he  could  have  phrased  it,  he  would 
have  accounted  for  himself  as  one  of  the  great  natural 
forces.  For  there  is  no  vanity  equal  to  that  of  the  man 
who  had  amassed  a  fortune,  and  the  greater  the  fortune 
the  greater  the  vanity. 

But  Anstell  was  asked  no  question,  and  therefore  was 
compelled  to  answer  none.  Perhaps*  it  is  best  to  say  that 
he  simply  took  himself  for  granted.  He  was.  Therefore 
what  he  did  was  right. 

If  he  had  ever  missed  that  companionship  of  father 
and  son  which  is  the  privilege  of  the  least  of  humans,  his 
closest  friend  —  had  he  possessed  such  a  thing  —  would 
never  have  been  able  to  guess  it.  For  his  furtive  love  for 
John  was  something  ever  kept  in  the  background  and 
subordinated  always  to  his  work. 

His  work !  It  was  because  of  his  work  that  he  had  sent 
for  John  to-day.  The  newspapers  had  informed  him  of 


THE  DAY  OF  FAITH  127 

the  work  of  Jane  Maynard  and  John.  Of  late  he  had 
been  thinking  that  it  was  about  time  that  John  quit  being 
a  dilettante  at  business,  and  be  intrusted  with  great 
schemes.  He  was  ready,  so  Michael  Anstell  thought. 

But  sometimes  it  is  not  the  desire  to  achievement  alone 
that  spurs  a  man  on.  Sometimes  a  woman  is  involved. 
Which  was  all  very  well,  provided  that  the  woman  was 
acceptable  to  Michael. 

Jane  Maynard  was  not  acceptable.  She  was  mentally 
unbalanced.  So  Michael  had  decided,  and  his  decisions 
were  almost  always  unchangeable.  She  would  not  do  as 
the  wife  of  John,  as  the  daughter-in-law  of  Michael,  as 
the  mother  of  future  Anstells. 

But  if  he  didn't  fully  understand  the  individual,  John 
Anstell,  he  understood  extremely  well  men  in  general.  He 
was  a  reader  of  character,  of  hidden  emotions  and 
thoughts,  to  a  degree  that  would  have  made  him  a  mar- 
velous practitioner  of  the  new  pseudo-science  of  psycho- 
analysis. 

He  had  sent  for  John  because  he  thought  him  ready 
for  what  Michael  would  have  termed  "  big  things,"  and 
also  to  make  a  discovery  concerning  his  son.  He  had  made 
the  discovery ;  the  "  big  things  "  would  be  postponed  for 
a  while. 

As  he  had  said,  he  had  never  interfered  with  his  son 
while  the  young  man  had  been  sowing  his  extremely  modest 
crop  of  wild  oats.  He  had  never  been  harsh.  He  would 
not  be  so  now.  But  it  was  not  because  he  wished  to  play 
fair,  as  he  had  said,  with  that  engaging  appearance  of 
frankness  that  had  been  so  great  a  business  asset  to 
him ;  it  was  because  he  knew  that  opposition,  whether  finan- 
cial or  otherwise,  would  have  an  effect  contrary  to  that 
which  he  hoped  for. 

To  order  his  son  to  "  cut  the  girl  out "  was  all  very 
well.  But  to  enforce  that  order  by  ordaining  a  financial 


128  THE  DAY  OF  FAITH 

stringency  was  to  mobilize  every  atom  of  stubborn  opposi- 
tion in  the  young  man's  heart  and  mind.  Michael  Anstell 
had  not  bent  legislatures,  peoples,  to  his  will  without 
learning  a  certain  shrewdness.  He  would  do  nothing  so 
crude  as  to  attempt  an  open  enforcement  of  his  order. 

There  were,  as  he  knew  so  well,  so  many  ways  of  skinning 
a  cat  that  one  could  take  one's  choice.  There  were  as 
many  ways  of  making  love's  young  fancy  look  the  other 
way. 

But,  in  love  as  in  politics,  there  is  one  weapon  more 
potent  than  any  other,  and  that  is  ridicule.  It  was  the 
weapon  that  Michael  Anstell  would  use. 

He  had  discovered  that  John  was  in  love  with  Jane 
Maynard.  Possibly  John  had  not  yet  made  that  dis- 
covery. His  father  didn't  care;  he  knew,  and  he  felt 
himself  far  more  vitally  concerned  than  John  could  have 
been. 

For  the  piled-up  billions  of  Michael  Anstell  would  exist, 
he  hoped,  until  the  end  of  time.  Only  one  thing  could 
dissipate  them,  and  that  thing  was  a  bad  strain  in  the 
blood.  He,  Michael  Anstell,  could  not  dictate  the  matri- 
monial alliances  of  his  unborn  grandchildren,  but  he  could 
take  care  that  his  own  son  made  no  mistake.  Arid  Jane 
Maynard's  blood  was  bad ;  the  girl  was  crazy. 

He  had  sent  for  his  secretary  merely  to  induce  a 
speedier  departure  of  his  son.  Now,  leaning  back  in  his 
swivel  chair,  his  keen  eyes  half  closed,  he  pondered  the 
situation. 

Make  her  ridiculous!  But  how?  A  dozen  schemes 
presented  themeslves  to  him,  but  were  dismissed.  They 
were  schemes  that  might  fail,  might  indeed  arouse  the 
chivalry  of  John.  But  finally  he  came  upon  the  one  that 
suited  him,  and  he  telephoned  the  office  of  the  Morning 
Blade,  one  of  those  newspapers  which,  more  or  less  sub 
rosa,  he  controlled.  He  spoke  to  the  publisher  and  asked 


THE  DAY  OF  FAITH  129 

him,  if  he  had  a  moment  to  spare,  to  drop  over  to  his 
office. 

Ten  minutes  later  the  publisher  was  ushered  into  the 
room.  Michael  Anstell  was  at  the  window,  staring  out 
upon  a  marvelous  view  of  harbor  and  bay.  Towering 
liners  churned  the  waters  into  foam ;  trains,  made  tiny  by 
distance,  crawled  across  a  great  bridge  that  flung  itself 
high  above  a  busy  stream ;  from  his  eighteenth-story  win- 
dow he  could  look  down  upon  the  streets  and  see  the  ants 
that  were  human,  hurrying  hither  and  thither,  with  ap- 
parent aimlessness.  He  turned  away,  with  a  queer  sense 
of  elation.  He  made  these  people  walk  about,  caused  their 
trains  to  crawl  across  bridges  and  through  tunnels;  the 
liners  sailed  at  his  behest. 

He  held  out  his  hand  to  Simmonson,  the  publisher. 
Simmonson's  sigh  of  relief  was  almost  audible.  When 
Michael  Anstell  sent  for  his  employees  they  usually  trem- 
bled. There  was  no  mercy  in  his  code;  a  man  succeeded 
or  he  failed.  There  were  no  shades  of  success,  no  measures 
of  failure.  And  a  daily  paper  is  a  tremendous  institution. 
Scores  of  items  appear  in  each  issue,  and  only  one  of  them 
might  perhaps  tread  on  the  sacrosanct  corns  of  sacred 
toes. 

Anstell  came  right  down  to  business;  he  was  never  a 
man  to  waste  time  on  what  he  contemptuously  termed 
palaver.  "This  Jane  Maynard;  know  her?"  he  de- 
manded brusquely. 

Simmonson  looked  slightly  bewildered.  "  You  mean 

the '  He  hesitated.  From  AnstelPs  tone  he  could 

not  tell  whether  or  not  the  billionaire  held  the  lady  in 
favor  or  disfavor. 

"  The  religious  maniac,"  said  Anstell. 

Simmonson  took  his  cue,  "  Not  personally,  of  course," 
he  said.  "  But  we've  printed  so  much  about  her " 

"Print  more;  lots  more,"  said  Anstell. 


130  THE  DAY  OF  FAITH 

Simmonson  nodded  doubtfully.  "  She's  pretty  dead, 
speaking  from  a  news  standpoint,"  he  said. 

"  Revive  her,"  ordered  Anstell.  "  Make  a  joke  of  her; 
make  her  the  most  ridiculous  person  in  New  York." 

The  publisher  pursed  his  lips.  "  She's  been  doing  a  — 
people  think  that  she's  —  er  —  accomplishing  certain 
good " 

"  It's  what  I  think  that  dictates  the  Blade's  policy," 
said  Anstell  curtly.  "  I  want  her  made  a  laughing-stock. 
Don't  care  how  you  do  it.  Do  it !  "  He  stared  a  moment 
at  his  subordinate.  "  Any  questions  ?  "  he  demanded. 

Simmonson  shook  his  head.  Anstell,  according  to  his 
custom,  rang  a  bell,  to  indicate  that  the  interview  was 
over,  and  Simmonson  left.  Outside,  and  on  his  way  back 
to  the  Blade  office,  he  put  to  himself  the  questions  that  he 
had  been  too  wise  to  put  to  Anstell.  For  Anstell  tolerated 
no  one  who  questioned  his  reasons.  He  cared  only  for 
men  who  did  as  they  were  told.  Simmonson  had  risen  to  a 
pleasant  competence  by  observation  of  this  fact. 

And  in  his  own  office  Simmonson  became  the  dictator. 
He  sent  brusquely  for  his  managing  editor. 

"  Campaign  against  Jane  Maynard,  the  slum  heroine," 
he  said  briefly,  with  a  fair  imitation  of  Anstell's  own  brus- 
queness.  "  Make  a  joke  of  her.  Laugh  her  out  of  busi- 
ness." 

"  She's  not  news,"  objected  the  managing  editor. 

Simmonson  lighted  a  cigar.  "  Make  her  news,"  he  said 
shortly. 

In  the  managing  editor's  office  the  same  comedy  was 
rehearsed  again,  with  the  editor  now  playing  the  leading 
role,  and  the  city  editor  taking  the  minor  part.  Five 
minutes  after  that  interview  closed  the  city  editor  crooked 
a  finger  and  called,  "  Oh,  Barnett,  just  a  minute." 

A  slim  youth,  with  a  downward  twist  at  one  corner  of 
his  mouth  that  lent  him  an  expression  unpleasantly  sar- 


THE  DAY  OF  FAITH  131 

donic,  rose  from  the  chair  before  a  typewriter,  in  which  he 
was  tilted  back.  He  dropped  a  cigarette  upon  the  floor 
and  ground  his  heel  upon  it.  One  noticed  then,  as  he. 
stood,  that  he  was  slightly  lame. 

He  walked  over  to  the  city  editor's  desk.  The  comedy 
was  not  rehearsed  again.  City  editors  have  to  drive  their 
men,  on  occasion,  and  the  martinet  does  not  always  get 
the  best  work.  Barnett  lounged  against  the  desk. 

"  Well,  sucker,  what's  on  your  soul  ?  "  he  demanded. 

"  Not  a  thing  in  the  world  but  sin,"  replied  his  chief. 

"  Well,  don't  tell  me  about  it,"  said  the  reporter.  "  I'm 
not  hearing  confessions  to-day." 

The  city  editor  grinned  cynically.  The  reporter's 
words  conjured  up  a  picture  of  him  in  vestments.  And 
Tom  Barnett  was  probably  the  least  saintly  man  on  Park 
Row. 

"  Maynard  girl  —  Jane  Maynard.  Want  a  couple  of 
columns  about  her." 

Barnett  stared  at  him.  "  What's  the  idea?  Don't  you 
think  the  public  are  sick  and  tired  of  hearing  about 
her?" 

"  I  do,"  agreed  the  chief.  "  But  we  want  to  make 
her  sick  and  tired  of  hearing  about  herself.  Get  the  wee 
distinction,  my  little  man?  " 

Barnett  smiled.  He  leaned  more  intimately  against 
the  desk  and  lighted  another  cigarette.  "  Orders  from 
the  high  mogul  himself,  old  M.  A.,  eh?  " 

"  Did  I  say  so  ?  "  countered  the  other. 

"  I  read  the  papers,"  said  B'arnett.  "  So  —  the  old 
boy  doesn't  like  his  angel  child  running  around  with  his 
little  playmate?  " 

"  Little  mind  reading?  "  asked  the  city  editor,  heavily 
sarcastic. 

"  Newspaper  reading,  I  said,"  chuckled  Barnett.  "  Old 
M.  A.  is  as  subtle  as  a  steam  roller,  isn't  he?  " 


132  THE  DAY  OF  FAITH 

"  Don't  you  want  the  assignment,  Tom?  "  asked  the 
editor. 

"  Hasty,  hasty,'*  chided  the  reporter.  His  thin  face, 
nearly  always  gloomy,  lighted.  "  Sure,  I  want  it." 

"  Then  go  to  it,"  said  the  editor.  "  Begin  to-night. 
Mark  your  copy  '  must.'  ' 

The  reporter  whistled.  "  As  important  as  all  that, 
eh?  Fair  enough.  I'll  hand  this  town  the  laugh  of  a  gen- 
eration. God  knows  it  needs  one  these  days." 

He  limped  off,  his  smile  wrinkling  his  sunken  cheeks, 
making  his  mouth  even  more  distorted.  A  few  minutes 
later  and  he  was  in  the  "  morgue,"  that  department  of  a 
newspaper  where  clippings  are  stored  away  in  envelopes, 
and  was  slumped  in  a  great  chair,  reading  over  Jane 
Maynard's  newspaper  record. 

There  was  enough  there,  he  assured  himself,  after  a 
couple  of  hours,  for  a  hundred  laughs.  He  wondered 
that  she  had  escaped  ridicule  as  well  as  she  had.  If  he 
ran  a  newspaper  according  to  his  light,  he'd  ridicule 
everybody  and  everything.  Of  course,  he  didn't  get  her 
graft,  —  he'd  admit  that.  But  he  would  get  it.  He'd 
enjoy  getting  it.  If  there  was  anything  in  the  world  that 
made  him  ill,  sickened  him  to  his  very  soul,  it  was  the  re- 
ligious bunk  that  people  swallowed.  Boobs,  fools,  come- 


ons 


He  had  some  respect  for  preachers,  but  for  the  saps 
who  sat  in  the  pews  and  ate  up  the  ho  cum  -  The 
preacher  got  something  for  his  work  ;  he  drew  a  salary 
at  least,  and  probably  dipped  his  hand  into  the  foreign- 
mission  collections.  But  the  man  or  woman  who  slipped 
his  hard-earned  money  into  the  poor  box,  —  they  were 
fooled  because  they  wanted  to  be  fooled,  and  they  got 
none  of  his  sympathy. 

At  that,  though,  this  Jane  Maynard  must  be  a  deep 
one.  He  felt  a  certain  admiration  for  her.  Of  course, 


THE  DAY  OF  FAITH  133 

it  was  obvious  what  she  was  after.  She'd  been  biding 
her  time,  waiting  for  the  real  money,  and  now  she'd  got 
her  hooks  into  young  Anstell.  And  papa  was  fighting 
for  his  baby  boy.  Well,  much  as  he  despised  and  hated 
old  Anstell,  he,  Tom  Barnett,  would  aid  him  this  time. 
If  it  had  been  a  chorus  girl  who'd  grabbed  off  the  young 
fellow,  Barnett  would  have  quit  his  job  rather  than  hurt 

her  chances.  But  a  religious  faker Even  an  old 

robber  like  Michael  Anstell  deserved  better  luck  for  his 
son  than  that. 

He  was  a  mean  little  man,  was  Tom  Barnett.  Nature 
had  been  unkind  to  him.  He  had  been  born  with  a  limp 
in  one  leg,  and  the  limp  had  got  into  his  soul.  Unable 
to  defend  himself  from  other  boys  with  his  hands,  Tom 
Barnett,  in  youth,  had  made  a  weapon  of  his  tongue. 
In  manhood  that  vitriolic  tongue  still  functioned,  but  not 
so  frequently,  for  an  outlet  for  his  mordant  wit  had  been 
provided  by  his  typewriter. 

He  wrote  a  scathing  sort  of  humor  that  had  swiftly 
brought  him  to  high  place  in  his  profession.  Politicians 
who  were  trying  to  "  put  something  over,"  pretentious  per- 
sons of  all  kinds,  were  fair  game  for  him.  The  fact  that 
it  was  necessary  to  edit  his  copy  carefully,  with  a  keen 
realization  of  the  libel  laws,  did  not  affect  his  value.  He 
could  "  lighten  up  "  any  page,  on  almost  instant  notice. 
And,  in  addition  to  his  humorous  gifts,  he  was  a  writer 
of  ability,  with  a  sense  for  word  values  that  lifted  him 
well  out  of  the  rut. 

It  was  an  assignment  after  his  own  heart.  The  fact 
that  a  girl  was  to  be  his  victim  made  no  appeal  to  his  sense 
of  chivalry.  He  had,  he  boasted,  no  illusions  about  the 
other  sex.  He  believed  that  every  woman,  like  every  man, 
had  her  price,  and  that,  in  most  cases,  the  price  was  ex- 
tremely low. 

So  it  was  with  not  the  slightest  feeling  of  shame  or  re- 


THE  DAY  OF  FAITH 

luctance  that  he  entered  the  Foundation  about  eight 
o'clock  that  evening.  With  a  grin  he  complied  with  the 
necessary  utterance,  and  stated  that  his  neighbor  was 
perfect.  Then,  thinking  that  the  statement  would  af- 
ford a  good  opening  sentence  for  his  story  later  in  the 
evening  —  a  variety  of  changes  could  be  rung  upon  the 
phrase  —  he  entered  the  main  hall. 

It  was  thronged,  but  he  managed  to  wedge  himself  well 
down  toward  a  table  behind  which  sat  Jane  Maynard, 
whom  he  recognized  at  once  from  the  newspaper  pictures 
which  he  had  studied  earlier  in  the  day. 

He  had  entered,  so  it  seemed,  in  the  middle  of  a  meet- 
ing. For  the  girl  was  speaking. 

"  As  I  said,'*  she  apparently  repeated,  "  some  of  you 
here  to-night  thought  that  we  should  hold  some  sort  of 
thanksgiving  service.  You  have  been  through  an  ordeal ; 
you  have  seen  your  homes  and  possessions  destroyed  by 
fire.  And  yet  —  you  have  not  suffered.  Those  of  you 
who  lost  all  have  discovered  that  you  lost  nothing.  For 
nothing  is  important  save  faith  in  your  fellow  man.  If 
you  have  that,  you  have  everything.  And  we  all  have 
that."  She  looked  around  at  her  auditors.  Reluctantly 
Barnett  was  conscious  that  she  was  even  prettier  than 
her  photographs.  Smilingly  she  added,  "  Haven't  we?  " 

There  was  a  murmur  of  response  from  the  gathering. 
Barnett  looked  at  their  faces.  There  was  on  them  all 
that  odd  expression  of  calm  that  had  puzzled  so  many 
other  newspaper  men,  that  had  been  so  widely  commented 
on  in  the  press  in  recent  days.  But  he  understood  it. 
Cows  looked  contented,  placid,  and  cows  were  the  most 
notoriously  stupid  of  all  animals.  These  were  cowlike 
humans. 

"  Is  there  any  particular  fashion  in  which  you  think 
pur  thanks  should  be  express .  J  ?  "  asked  the  girl. 

Formality  left  the  meeting  then.     Groups   gathered, 


THE  DAY  OF  FAITH  135 

arguing,  though  in  the  friendliest  fashion.  And  Barnett 
took  the  opportunity  to  approach  the  girl. 

"  My  name  is  Barnett  —  of  the  Morning  Blade"  he 
told  her. 

She  held  out  her  hand,  grimacing  slightly.  "  More 
advertising,  Mr.  Barnett?  " 

"  You  want  it,  don't  you  ?  "  he  asked  brusquely.  He 
was  conscious  that  her  hand  gripped  his  like  a  man's, 
although  it  was  velvet  to  his  touch. 

She  shook  her  head.  "  Indeed  not.  Unless ** 

She  paused. 

"Unless  what?"  he  asked. 

"  There's  been  so  much  talk  about  me,"  she  said.  "  If 
you'd  write  about  the  people  hers  —  how  human  they  are, 
how  deserving  —  wouldn't  you  like  to  look  around,  Mr. 
Barnett?  " 

He  would,  and  did.  Mingling  among  the  people,  he 
questioned  them,  heard  their  statements  about  their  new- 
found contentment.  And  more  and  more  he  began  to 
be  impressed  with  the  fact  that  he  couldn't  solve  the  reason 
for  the  girl's  establishment  of  the  place.  She  was  preach- 
ing bunk;  he  recognized  that.  And  she'd  interested 
young  Anstell.  But  she  hadn't  started  this  thing  on  the 
off  chance  that  a  loose-brained  young  millionaire  might 
become  interested  in  her  scheme  and  that  his  interest 
might  become  personal.  And  she  was  too  clear-eyed,  too 
keen-brained,  to  believe  in  her  own  ideas.  It  was  a  monu- 
mental graft,  and  it  irked  him  that  he  couldn't  put  his 
finger  on  the  graft. 

He  was  descending  the  stairs,  having  toured  the  upper 
part  of  the  house,  when  a  child  of  ten  or  twelve,  just 
ahead  of  him,  stumbled  and  pitched  to  the  floor.  Like 
a  flash  Barnett  ran  down  the  stairs  and  picked  the 
youngster  up.  The  child  smiled;  he  was  quite  unhurt. 
The  reporter  put  him  down. 


136  THE  DAY  OF  FAITH 

"  You  want  to  be  careful,  kid,"  he  said.  "  You  might 
become  lame,  from  a  fall  like  that  —  just  like  me,"  he 
added  bitterly. 

And  then,  suddenly,  he  fell  against  the  wall,  his  face 
white,  his  mouth  moving  soundlessly.  For  he  had  been 
lame  since  his  birth,  twenty-eight  years  ago,  and  his  lame- 
ness was  such  a  part  of  him  that  he  hardly  thought  of 
it.  Now,  suddenly,  he  realized  that  he  had  run  down- 
stairs without  a  trace  of  a  limp.  It  was  incredible,  fear- 
some, somehow.  He  stared  down  at  his  knee.  He  put 
his  foot  out ;  he  walked  across  the  hall.  He  was  not  lame. 

The  child  cried  out  as  he  pitched  forward,  fainting. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

ALMOST  in  the  shadow  of  Police  Headquarters  was  a 
saloon.  It  was  a  place  that  was  reminiscent  of  braver 
days,  before  the  great  fear  had  spread  over  the  country. 
For,  prate  as  we  will  of  the  growth  of  righteousness,  it  is 
fear  that  inspires  the  blue  laws.  If  not  fear  for  ourselves, 
fear  for  our  sons,  our  brothers,  our  husbands  or  our  wives. 

Fear !  It  is  the  most  dominant  trait  in  all  the  animal 
kingdom,  to  which  man,  as  yet,  belongs.  Navies  and 
armies,  policemen  and  unofficial  guardians  of  the  morali- 
ties and  legalities  of  others :  fear  brings  them  into  action, 
and  fear  keeps  them  there. 

But  here,  near  Police  Headquarters,  the  fear  had  not 
permeated.  Ahead  of  the  denizens  of  this  place  were  pos- 
sibly restrictions  on  their  tobacco,  on  their  methods  of 
employing  time  on  Sundays,  on  their  manner  of  dress  — 
Heaven  alone  knows  what  is  ahead  of  all  of  us !  This 
much  we  may  be  sure  of:  reform  is  like  fire;  it  consumes 
everything  inflammable,  then  finally  burns  itself  out.  Like 
disease,  it  attacks  a  community,  a  people,  and  for  a  time 
seems  triumphant;  but  at  last,  worn  out  by  its  own  con- 
quests, it  vanishes. 

But  down  here  the  fear  had  not  yet  crept  in.  The 
singing  waiter,  relic  of  a  bygone  day,  tunefully  served 
liquor  to  the  patrons.  A  large  bouncer  stood  ready  to 
eject  the  quarrelsome.  But  these  last  were  not  many. 
The  procuring  of  liquor  was  too  difficult  for  a  man  to 
jeopardize  his  source  of  supply  by  making  himself  of- 
fensive to  the  dispenser  thereof.  Peace  and  comparative 


138  THE  DAY  OF  FAITH 

quiet  reigned  in  this  resort  when  Tom  Barnett  dragged 
himself  wearily  inside. 

For  he  was  weary;  weary  of  mind  and  heart  as  well 
as  body.  He  was  as  one  who  has  seen  all  the  beliefs  of 
a  lifetime  shattered  at  one  blow. 

He  had  aroused  from  his  faint  to  find  himself  in  a  room 
upstairs,  attended  by  a  vision  whom  at  first  he  did  not 
recognize  as  Jane  Maynard.  For  he  had  looked  at  her 
with  cynical  unbelieving  eyes  which  had  found  her  good- 
looking,  perhaps,  but,  searching  for  the  evidences  of 
crookedness,  had  discounted  even  her  good  looks.  They 
had  not  interested  him.  Now,  queerly,  they  did. 

But  he  had  remained  under  her  ministrations  only  a 
moment.  Almost  as  soon  as  he  regained  his  senses,  he 
insisted  on  arising.  She,  who  only  knew  that  this  was 
a  reporter  from  the  Blade,  accepted  at  once  his  explana- 
tion, offered  most  apologetically,  that  he'd  been  suffering 
from  the  after  effects  of  influenza.  She  waved  his  apolo- 
gies aside.  And,  because  she  was  tactful,  she  left  him  as 
soon  as  he  had  recovered. 

He  had  sat  for  fully  ten  minutes  on  the  edge  of  the 
upstairs  couch  to  which  he  had  been  carried,  before  he 
moved.  His  sunken  cheeks  were  flushed,  and  the  twisted 
corner  of  his  mouth  was  no  longer  sardonic;  it  twitched 
as  though  with  fear. 

It  was  with  fear.  For  his  fear  of  something  non-un- 
derstandable had  crept  into  his  heart  while  he  had  been 
unconscious.  His  eyes  had  not  deceived  him,  or,  if  they 
had,  his  other  senses  had  not.  He  had  walked  without  a 
limp.  Slowly,  as  he  sat  there,  controlling  his  racing 
brain  by  the  most  violent  effort  of  his  will,  he  examined 
into  the  happening. 

A  child  had  stumbled  on  the  stairs,  had  fallen.  And 
he  had  leaped  to  pick  the  child  up.  Thereafter  he  had 
discovered  that  his  knee  was  cured.  Now,  then,  what 


THE  DAY  OF  FAITH  139 

could  have  caused  that  cure?  He  knew  of  cases  where 
paralytics,  under  the  stress  of  some  great  emotion,  had 
leaped  from  bed.  He  knew  that  at  St.  Anne  de  Beaupre, 
in  Canada,  there  had  been  well-authenticated  cases  of 
cripples  who  had  thrown  away  their  crutches.  The  same 
thing  had  happened  at  the  shrine  of  Lourdes,  in  France. 
These  things  were  confirmable  by  absolute  proof;  they 
had  happened. 

Why,  then,  could  not  the  same  thing  have  happened, 
in  the  same  way,  to  himself?  Excited  by  the  fall  of  the 

child A  great  ague  took  hold  of  him.  If  the  cure 

were  permanent He  dared  not  put  it  to  the  test. 

To  rise,  letting  his  weight  fall  upon  that  weak  knee 

Great  beads  of  sweat  came  to  his  forehead;  the  inside  of 
his  hands  were  wet;  he  felt  his  collar  giving  as  he  threw 
back,  as  though  for  breath,  his  head ;  it  gave  because  per- 
spiration had  made  it  limp.  Shaking,  trembling,  his  heart 
racing  in  panic,  he  rose  from  the  couch. 

Then  he  laughed.  For  the  weak  knee  gave  beneath  his 
weight.  He'd  been  hysterical,  crazy,  a  boob!  He'd 
imagined  something  and  the  imagining  had  scared  him 
into  a  faint.  He  lighted  a  cigarette  and  the  hand  that 
held  the  match  was  suddenly  steady.  He  grinned  at  him- 
self ;  he  was  relieved  because  he  was  a  cripple. 

But  after  he'd  limp  xl  downstairs  and  outside,  not  wait- 
ing to  thank  his  hostess  for  her  attention,  and  had  started 
for  the  subway  that  would  convey  him  to  the  Blade  of- 
fice, he  began  to  wonder.  He  knew  himself.  He  was  as 
cool  and  collected  a  person  as  he  knew.  He'd  never  been 
the  least  bit  emotional.  All  his  life  he'd  been  sardonic, 
distrustful.  Something  had  happened  to  him,!  What  had 
it  been? 

For  the  first  time  in  his  life  he  found  that  his  thoughts 
were  incoherent.  By  this  time,  ordinarily,  he  would 
have  phrased  his  opening  paragraph,  would  have  thought 


140  THE  DAY  OF  FAITH 

of  half  a  dozen  pungent  sentences  to  incorporate  into  his 
story.  But  to-night  he  could  think  of  nothing.  He  could 
focus  his  thoughts  only  upon  that  amazing  moment  be- 
fore he  had  fainted. 

There  was  a  cause  for  everything.  What  had  been  the 
cause  of  this?  It  was  j..ot  enough  to  say  that  the  house 
had  been  warm ;  that  he  was  off  his  feed ;  that  he  had, 
through  some  queer  and  unaccountable  physical  disorder, 
been  a  victim  to  a  hallucination.  That  would  do  for 
other  people.  Had  some  friend  of  his  told  him  a  story 
to  match  this,  he'd  have  attributed  the  man's  statements 
to  a  stomach  trouble,  to  a  disorder  of  the  eye,  to  some 
ailment  of  the  mind  itself. 

But  such  an  explanation  did  not  satisfy  himself.  Was 
it  due  to  his  own  vanity  that  he  refused  to  accept  the 
natural  explanation?  He  shook  his  head.  God  knew  that 
he  had  little  to  be  vain  about !  He  was  not  good-looking, 
not  attractive  to  women,  and  so  had  never  been  cursed 
with  the  most  offensive  kind  of  masculine  conceit.  He 
knew  that  he  was  a  good  reporter,  but  he  didn't  think  that 
his  head  was  swelled.  No,  he  refused  this  explanation, 
because  it  wasn't  true. 

He  hadn't  imagined  that  his  knee  was  well ;  it  had  been 
well. 

Once  again  he  fo  ^d  hims  faint,  and  so  he  pushed  his 
way  through  the  swinging  doors  that  led  into  the  place 
where  the  singing  waiter  conjured  up  the  brave  days  of 
old.  He  ordered  a  glass  of  whisky,  and  the  raw  fluid, 
burning  his  throat,  seemed  to  drive  the  cobwebs  away 
from  his  brain.  He  was  able  to  think.  He  was  able  to 
put  things,  events,  in  their  proper  order,  to  analyze  them, 
to  discover  what  they  meant. 

He  had  been  a  cripple  for  twenty-eight  years.  Not 
badly  crippled,  but  —  so  a  score  of  doctors  had  told  his 
parents  and  himself  —  incurably.  To-night,  for  a  mo- 


THE  DAY  OF  FAITH  141 

ment,  he  had  been  what  those  who  believed  in  such  mat- 
ters termed  "  healed."  Then  he  had  fainted,  to  awake 
—  a  cripple. 

Hallucination?  No!  He  would  not  believe  it.  He, 
the  cool-headed,  cynical,  incredulous  Tom  Barnett,  knew. 
Well,  then,  facts  call  for  no  theories  in  explanation ;  they 
call  for  other  facts.  Why  had  he  been  cured? 

He,  in  common  with  so  many  others,  had  noted  the 
calm  that  attended  the  frequenters  of  the  Hendricks  Foun- 
dation. Outward  calm  betokens  inward  peace.  He 
nodded  his  head.  They  couldn't  all  of  them  be  in  on 
Jane  Maynard's  clever  game;  all  of  them  were  not  par- 
ticipants in  some  scheme  of  graft.  Nor,  had  they  been 
all  schemers  with  her,  could  they  have  acted  their  parts  so 
perfectly.  Peace  and  calm.  That  was  the  atmosphere 
into  which  he  had  entered.  In  a  moment  of  natural  anx- 
iety for  the  fate  of  a  child,  he  had  forgotten  himself; 
all  his  cynicism,  his  hatred  of  the  world,  had  been  for- 
gotten. And  in  that  moment  of  self-forgetfulness  the 
peace  and  calm  of  these  others  had  stolen  into  his  own 
mind,  and  —  reformed  his  body ! 

He  ordered  another  drink,  and  the  waiter  accepted  the 
order  as  though  it  had  been  a  compliment  to  his  rendition 
of  the  popular  song.  Once  again,  thirstily,  Barnett 
drank.  And  the  liquor,  which  ordinarily  would  have  be- 
fogged his  mind,  seemed  to  render  it  more  keen. 

It  didn't  matter  that  his  knee  was  crippled  now.  It 
had  been  well,  if  only  for  a  moment.  The  action  of  all 
those  other  minds  upon  his  own,  those  other  minds  who 
saw  him  as  perfect,  had  reacted  upon  his  own,  and,  — 
had  cured  his  knee.  His  cynical  habits  of  thinking,  in- 
grained by  a  lifetime's  practice,  had  come  back  to  him, 
had  disorganized  the  cure  that  these  others  had  effected, 
but,  —  the  cure  had  existed. 

He  breathed   deeply,   frightened.     It  is   not   easy   to 


142  THE  DAY  OF  FAITH 

throw  overboard  the  beliefs  of  a  lifetime,  even  though 
those  beliefs  have  been  really  nonbeliefs.  To  say  that 
Tom  Barnett  had  ever  believed  in  anything  or  in  any- 
body would  be  to  state  a  falsehood.  He  had  believed 
nothing.  But  now  it  seemed  to  him  that  he  had  stumbled 
upon  a  truth.  No,  he  hadn't  stumbled  upon  it ;  Jane 
Maynard  had.  But  it  didn't  matter  who  had  done  so 
first ;  to  have  been  among  the  finders 

It  uprooted  all  his  modes  of  thought ;  miracles  were 
the  physical  manifestation  of  a  highly  keyed  mind  acting 
upon  flesh  and  bone.  His  mind  had  not  been  highly  keyed. 
He  had  gone  to  the  Foundation  in  an  amused  frame  of 
mind. 

It  didn't  matter  what  had  been  his  feelings.  Facts 
were  facts :  his  knee,  that  had  been  crippled,  had  been  mo- 
mentarily given  a  normality  that  it  had  never  owned 
before. 

Was  he  going  crazy?  He  asked  himself  that  question. 
But  never  had  his  mind  seemed  so  acute,  so  keen,  so  able 
to  analyze.  He  held  out  his  hand;  it  no  longer  shook. 
Of  course  the  liquor  might  have  steadied  him.  Absurd! 
He  knew  what  had  steadied  him:  the  comprehension  of  a 
tremendous  truth. 

What  was  Christianity  in  its  bare  essentials  ?  The  love 
of  one's  neighbor.  And  to  love  one's  neighbor  was  to 
see  him  without  his  imperfection.  The  girl  had  seen  the 
truth  and  was  preaching1  it.  What  others  preached  was 
all  wrong.  For  the  modern  preachment  of  Christianity 
laid  too  much  stress  on  the  fact  that  oneself  had  been 
created  in  God's  image,  and  too  little  on  the  fact  that 
one's  neighbor  had  also  thus  been  created. 

He  rose  to  his  feet.  Was  he  becoming  a  maudlin,, 
psalm-singing  sniveling What  had  he,  Tom  Bar- 
nett, to  do  with  bunk?  And  religion  was  bunk.  What 


THE  DAY  OF  FAITH  143 

else  could  it  be?  Hadn't  he  so  considered  it,  proved  it, 
since  he  was  able  to  think  at  all? 

But  this  wasn't  religion.  It  was  simply  a  common- 
sensible  way  of  looking  at  people.  Regard  them  decently 
and  they'd  so  regard  you.  Why,  it  was—  He  put 

down  his  glass  with  sudden  decision.  The  old  gods  had 
gone.  The  new  gods  had  arrived.  He,  Tom  Barnett, 
who  had  hated  the  world,  who  had  sneered  at  it,  had 
jeered  and  jibed  at  it,  would  regard  it  differently. 

"  Must,"  the  city  editor  had  told  him  to  write  on  his 
copy.  And  so,  half  an  hour  later,  his  lead  all  arranged 
in  his  mind,  he  marked  his  first  page.  It  meant  that  no 
copy  reader,  r.o  editor,  no  proofreader,  would  change  his 
story.  And  he  wrote  the  greatest  story  of  his  life. 

He  began  with  his  entrance  into  the  Foundation.  He 
told,  omitting  no  sneer  that  had  been  within  his  heart,  his 
own  feelings  as  he  had  watched  the  people  gathered  there 
under  the  leadership  of  Jane  Maynard.  And  then  he 
asked  the  rhetorical  question,  —  why  had  he  sneered? 
And  from  the  fullness  of  his  heart  he  answered  the  ques- 
tion. Because  it  is  easier  to  deny  than  to  believe. 

The  people,  simple  of  faith,  who  crowded  around  her,  — 
he  pictured  them  for  his  readers.  As  dramatically  as  he 
could  —  and  he  possessed  the  dramatic  sense  in  the  high- 
est degree  —  he  told  of  his  own  experience.  He  admitted 
that  his  readers  might  laugh;  he  told  them  that  he  didn't 
care.  For  one  glorious  moment  he  had  been  no  cripple; 
he  had  been  sound  and  whole.  He  might  never  be  sound 
and  whole  again,  he  admitted,  but  that  would  be  his  own 
fault. 

He  closed  with  an  appeal  to  the  public  to  support  an 
institution  that  preached  a  real  and  practical  Chris- 
tianity. Then  he  handed  his  copy  to  a  waiting  boy  and 
slipped  a  fresh  sheet  of  paper  in  his  typewriter.  He  ad- 
dressed a  brief  note  to  the  city  editor: 


144  THE  DAY  OF  FAITH 

Dear  Boss:  I'm  quitting  to-night.  I've  done  the  thing 
that  no  decent  man  does :  I've  thrown  down  the  paper.  And 
I  never  felt  so  decent  in  my  life. 

Yours, 

Tom  Barnett. 

He  folded  the  paper,  put  it  in  an  envelope,  and  placed 
it  in  the  city  editor's  letter  box.  Then,  his  coat  over  his 
arm,  his  hat  jammed  upon  his  forehead,  and  his  stick  in 
one  hand,  he  looked  about  the  office.  This  was  the  end, 
the  finish. 

He  had  thrown  down  his  paper.  What  other  office 
would  be  open  to  a  man  who  had  so  basely  violated  the 
most  important  paragraph  in  the  newspaper  code  of  eth- 
ics? What  editor  would  trust  him?  What  lowly  office 
cub  would  not  scorn  Tom  Barnett,  the  man  who  threw 
down  the  Blade? 

He  had  been  assigned  to  ridicule  Jane  Maynard.  In- 
stead, he  had  glorified  her  as  a  prophet.  For  Tom  Bar- 
nett there  would  be  no  sheet  so  mean  as  to  offer  him 
work. 

And  yet  he  did  not  feel  ashamed.  Beyond  the  loyalty 
to  a  paper  was  the  loyalty  to  himself.  He  had  never 
known  what  loyalty  to  self  meant.  He  knew  now.  It 
meant  no  mean  thing  dictated  by  interest ;  it  meant  loy- 
alty to  an  ideal.  He,  who  had  never  cared  about  ideals, 
possessed  them  now. 

The  Blade  was  the  thing  of  Michael  Anstell,  a  weapon 
which  he  would  use,  had  used,  against  recalcitrant  polit- 
ical henchmen,  against  financial  rivals.  Now  Anstell 
would  use  it  against  a  lovely  girl,  whose  only  offense  was 
that  she  had  intrigued  the  fancy  of  Michael  Anstell's 
son. 

Had  Tom  Barnett  been  the  man  that  he  should  have 
been,  he'd  have  refused  the  assignment,  have  quit  his  job 
rather  than  play  Michael  Anstell's  dirty  game.  But  he 


THE  DAY  OF  FAITH  145 

hadn't.  He'd  accepted,  to  his  own  shame.  Worse;  he'd 
gloried  in  the  assignment.  Now  —  he  had  turned  An- 
stell's  own  weapon  against  the  billionaire  himself.  Some- 
thing of  that  old  sardonic  twist  showed  at  the  corner  of 
his  mouth  as  he  thought  of  this.  Michael  Anstell  would 
find  it  difficult  to  bend  the  Blade  to  his  wishes  after  to- 
morrow morning.  Having  printed  two  columns  of  praise 
and  glorification,  the  Blade  could  hardly  turn  against 
itself. 

His  copy  was  marked  "  must."  That  was  the  cream 
of  the  jest.  Instructions  would  have  been  left  by  the  day 
editors  which  would  compel  the  night  desk  to  put  through 
his  story.  He  had  done  a  thing  which,  according  to  all 
his  newspaper  standards,  was  damnable,  but  which,  ac- 
cording to  the  standards  of  justice  and  truth,  was  most 
commendable. 

But  our  newer  morality,  when  it  conflicts  with  our 
older,  wages  its  battle  in  our  hearts.  And  Tom  Bar- 
nett's  heart  felt  the  weapons  as  the  new  and  the  old  fought 
together.  He  felt  sick,  ashamed,  even  as  he  felt  well,  up- 
lifted. In  an  all-night  drug  store  on  Park  Row  he  waited 
until  the  first  edition  of  the  Blade,  cried  aloud  by  vocifer- 
ous newsboys,  reached  the  street.  He  bought  a  copy  and 
saw  the  long  headline  that  had  been  put  across  his  story. 
He  saw  his  own  name  signed  to  the  story.  He  saw  a 
photograph  of  himself,  dug  up  to  grace  the  occasion  from 
the  office  files.  It  was  an  honor  rarely  accorded  him; 
to  sign  his  own  stuff  and  have  his  own  photograph  also 
printed.  For  a  moment  he  felt  that  exultation  which 
comes  to  reporters  when  such  signal  honor  is  accorded 
them  and  their  work. 

Reaction  came.  The  "  night  desk  "  had  seen  that  he'd 
written  a  corking  story ;  also  one  that,  from  its  personal 
side,  was  a  most  amazing  yarn.  They  had  displayed  it 
advantageously ;  they  wanted  to  sell  the  wares  the  Blade 


146  THE  DAY  OF  FAITH 

offered.  If  he  had  lingered  in  the  office  after  turning 
in  his  copy,  he  would  have  been  questioned.  He  was  glad 
that  he  hadn't  had  to  face  interrogations,  even  though 
he  could  have  answered  them  truthfully,  even  though  not 
one  word  of  his  story  could  be  impeached. 

But  he  had  betrayed  not  merely  his  employer,  but  his 
associates.  True,  in  betrayal  he  did  honor  to  the  new 
faith  that  was  in  him,  but  —  what  right  while  he  took 
the  Blade's  money,  while  he  was  the  servant  of  Michael 
Anstell,  had  Tom  Barnett  to  deceive  his  employer,  to 
betray  him? 

His  head  sunk  on  his  chest,  he  limped  up  Park  Row, 
beneath  the  shadow  of  the  elevated.  He  passed  through 
Chinatown  and  came  out  upon  Chatham  Square.  And  as 
he  walked  he  thought. 

Why,  not  merely  had  he  betrayed  his  craft,  but  — 
they'd  think  that  he  lied.  The  story  had  been  run  be- 
cause it  had  "  must  "  on  it,  but  —  he  limped.  He  still 
limped.  Who  would  believe  that  he  had  been  healed,  even 
for  a  moment?  Why,  the  people  who'd  seen  him  faint, 
who'd  carried  him  upstairs  in  the  Foundation,  didn't 
know  why  he'd  fainted,  didn't  know  that  for  the  moment 
he  had  been  cured.  Only  his  own  word !  His  city  editor 
would  think  that  he  lied,  had  done  the  thing  deliberately, 
that  he  had  vented  a  hidden  hatred  at  a  time  when  his 
fellows  were  helpless  against  his  venom. 

Some  men  drink  to  drown  their  sorrows  for  their  sins. 
Tom  Barnett  went  to  the  place  where  the  singing  waiter 
still  had  his  existence  and  drank  to  drown  his  sorrow  for 
his  virtue. 


CHAPTER  XV 

ON  old  Murray  Hill,  on  a  side  street  around  the  cor- 
ner from  Park  Avenue,  lived  Michael  Anstell.  In  its  day 
the  mansion  had  been  pictured  in  the  press  of  the  world. 
Columns  had  been  devoted  to  the  origin  and  cost  of  the 
bronze  gates  that  guarded  the  front  door.  They  had 
come  from  an  ancient  palace  of  the  old  nobility  of  France. 
A  Venetian  doge  had  dwelt  in  the  city  of  canals,  cen- 
turies ago,  and  in  his  retinue  had  maintained  a  craftsman 
whose  cunning  had  immortalized  his  master.  The  marble 
fittings  of  the  hall  had  been  created  by  this  long-dead 
Venetian.  Egypt,  India,  the  Europe  of  the  Renaissance, 
the  Greece  of  two  thousand  years  ago  —  the  culture  of 
ancient,  medieval,  and  modern  times  —  had  existed  for  one 
purpose,  to  glorify  Michael  Anstell. 

At  any  rate,  the  products  of  that  culture,  the  best  of 
them,  were  owned  by  him.  Of  what  use  to  say  that  the 
artist,  the  sculptor,  had  worked  because  God  had  endowed 
him  with  a  spark  from  His  own  divinity?  Results  count; 
Michael  Anstell  owned  their  works.  Their  bones  were 
dust ;  but  Michael  Anstell  lived  and  owned  the  things  that 
they  had  created.  They  had  labored  for  him. 

So,  at  any  rate,  it  pleased  the  billionaire's  fancy  to 
think.  The  best  that  princes,  kings,  emperors  had  man- 
aged to  acquire;  from  these,  guided  by  highly  salaried 
cultural  experts,  Michael  Anstell  had  chosen  the  furnish- 
ings for  his  home. 

When  the  tide  of  fashion  swept  farther  uptown,  Anstell 
refused  to  move  with  it.  Lest  commerce  encroach  too 
closely  upon  his  residence,  he  bought  up  the  neighbor- 


148  THE  DAY  OF  FAITH 

hood  for  several  blocks  around  him,  forming  an  oasis  of 
residential  calm  in  the  midst  of  teeming  trade. 

Twenty  servants  ministered  to  his  comfort  in  this  city 
home.  On  his  country  estate  in  Westchester  over  five 
hundred  persons,  including  those  who  labored  upon  the 
grounds,  were  employed.  He  used  his  Westchester  place 
a  couple  of  months  during  the  year,  but  he  kept  it  staffed 
all  the  year  round. 

There  was  also  a  forty-room  cottage  at  Bar  Harbor, 
a  fishing  camp  on  a  stream  that  emptied  into  the  St. 
Lawrence,  a  villa  in  Florida,  and  magnificent  apartments, 
maintained  in  readiness  for  their  owner,  in  London  and 
Paris.  For  the  direct  smoothing  of  the  path  of  living 
for  Michael  Anstell  not  less  than  two  thousand  persons 
were  employed.  His  business  ventures  employed  mil- 
lions. 

And  indirectly  the  whole  world  paid  tribute  to  him, 
was  in  his  employ.  Yet,  master  of  a  fortune  such  as  the 
world  had  never  seen,  one  that  would  have  made  such  a 
one  as  Croesus  lament  his  comparative  beggary,  Michael 
Anstell  was  as  dependent,  for  the  execution  of  his  plans, 
upon  others  as  the  least  of  us. 

The  railroad  king  may  discharge  the  engineer.  But 
if  the  engineer,  guiding  his  important  freight  across  the 
country,  nod  at  his  lever,  and  the  train  is  wrecked,  of 
what  avail  are  his  passengers'  millions? 

If  the  pilot  forgets  the  hidden  rock,  of  what  use,  in 
the  moment  of  dread,  is  one's  ability  to  engage  or  dis- 
charge a  thousand  pilots?  If  one's  chef  has  a  murder- 
ous impulse,  is  it  not  too  late  to  discharge  the  man  when 
the  poison  has  been  consumed? 

So,  when  Michael  Anstell  read,  at  the  breakfast  table, 
his  copy  of  the  Morning  Blade,  his  impulse  of  fury  passed 
almost  immediately.  He  would  be  revenged  —  yes.  The 
man  who  had  violated  his  commands  would  pay  the  last 


THE  DAY  OF  FAITH  149 

penalty  that  Michael  Anstell  could  exact.  He  would  be 
a  pariah  among  newspaper  men,  unable  to  secure  employ- 
ment anywhere.  "  Thomas  Barnett."  The  name  would 
be  forever  engraved  on  the  mind  of  Anstell. 

But  to  waste  good  physical  tissue  upon  a  person  of 
no  importance  was  to  violate  the  Anstell  creed,  which  was 
that  broken  eggs  cannot  be  replaced.  Fretting  and  fum- 
ing over  matters  that  cannot  be  helped  affects  one  phys- 
ically. Anstell  had  learned  that  years  ago.  Life  was 
too  precious,  its  moments  too  few,  for  one  of  them  to 
be  dissipated  in  nonessential  matters. 

Not  that  his  son's  fancy  for  Jane  Maynard  was  non- 
essential.  It  was  of  vital  importance.  But  because  one 
method  of  curing  that  fancy  had  not  worked,  to  bother 
about  it  was  ridiculous. 

He  wondered,  as  he  read  the  story,  how  much  of  it 
was  true.  That  is,  how  sincere  this  Tom  Barnett  was. 
That  there  was  any  truth  at  all  in  the  man's  statements 
was  too  absurd  to  be  admitted  for  a  moment.  But  what 
portion  of  the  story  did  its  author  himself  believe?  And, 
inasmuch  as  he  doubtless  had  been  instructed  just  what 
sort  of  story  to  write,  how  had  he  dared  violate  those 
instructions  ? 

As  to  the  philosophical  matters  touched  upon  by  Bar- 
nett, Anstell  paid  them  the  tribute  of  a  frown.  This 
reporter  was  a  dangerous  anarchist.  He  stated,  flatly, 
that  organized  religion  had  failed,  in  part  at  any  rate, 
of  its  ostensible  purpose.  How  dared  he,  a  miserable 
scribbler,  attack  institutions  that  were  supported  by  the 
"  best  people  "  in  all  civilized  lands?  He  himself,  Michael 
Anstell,  was  a  heavy  contributor  to  organized  charity. 
The  reporter  had  attacked  Michael  Anstell  himself. 

But  he  must  remember  his  code ;  a  gnat  may  annoy  the 
elephant,  but  only  slightly.  He  shrugged,  even  as  the 


150  THE  DAY  OF  FAITH 

elephant  might  flick  his  great  ear,  whisking  the  gnat  away. 
He  turned  to  other  pages  of  the  paper. 

But  later  in  the  day  Simmonson  was  summoned  to  his 
office.  In  fear  and  trembling  the  publisher  obeyed.  Sim- 
monson had  read  the  Barnett  story;  he  had  conferred 
with  an  outraged  managing  editor,  an  amazed  city  editor. 
Barnett  was  insane,  that  was  the  only  solution  of  the 
matter. 

It  was  the  city  editor,  trying  to  protect  the  reporter 
for  whom,  despite  Barnett's  cynicism,  he  had  a  genuine 
fondness,  who  advanced  this  theory. 

"  It  doesn't  matter  a  tuppeny  damn  what  Barnett  is, 
or  isn't,"  cried  Simmonson.  "  The  night  desk  must  have 
been  insane,  too,  to  pass  such  driveling  rot." 

The  managing  editor  shrugged.  "  They  knew  it  was 
a  *  must '  from  old  M.  A.  himself,"  he  retorted.  "  And 
old  M.  A.'s  ways  are  dark  and  devious,  you  know." 

Simmonson  did  know.  He  couldn't  blame  the  night 
desk;  he  couldn't  blame  any  one  but  the  reporter.  He 
couldn't.  But  whom  would  old  M.  A.  hold  responsible? 

"  Fine  disciple  you  have  on  the  Blade,  Simmonson," 
said  Anstell,  as  the  publisher  was  admitted  to  his  pres- 
ence. His  hard  blue  eyes  glinted  dangerously. 

"  The  man  Barnett  deliberately "  began  Simmon- 
son. 

"  You  are  responsible  for  the  men  employed  on  the 
Blade"  Anstell  cut  him  short. 

Simmonson  shrugged  hopelessly. 

"Barnett  —  has  he  offered  any  explanation?"  asked 
Anstell. 

Simmonson  shrugged  again.  He  handed  to  Anstell 
Barnett's  note  of  resignation.  The  billionaire's  face  was 
expressionless.  He  passed  the  note  back  to  Simmonson. 

"  See  that  he  gets  no  employment  —  anywhere,"  he 
said. 


THE  DAY  OF  FAITH  151 

Simmonson  nodded  eagerly. 

"  That'll  be  all,"  said  Anstell.  Simmonson  left  in  huge 
relief.  His  profitable  job  was  not  to  be  taken  away  from 
him. 

But  that  was  not  Anstell's  way.  He  had  won  for  him- 
self unflinching  loyalty  from  thousands  of  men.  He  had 
not  won  it  by  injustice.  In  his  own  way,  Michael  Anstell 
played  his  game  fairly.  He  made  errors  of  judgment 
himself;  he  could  expect  no  more  from  other  men.  He 
had  sent  for  Simmonson  merely  because  it  was  not  well  to 
let  a  man  who  had  made  a  mistake,  directly  or  indirectly, 
think  that  his  employer  had  not  noticed  it.  To  send  for 
a  man,  let  him  suffer  these  agonies  that  come  to  men, 
along  in  life,  when  their  sustenance  may  rudely  be  robbed 
from  them,  and  then  to  pardon  them,  —  that  was  Michael 
Anstell's  cruel  way.  It  was  a  good  way;  it  got  results. 
Simmonson  would  work  like  a  dog  for  months  to  come, 
trying  to  cover  up  this  dreadful  thing  that  Tom  Barnett 
had  done. 

If  only  one  could  purchase  absolute  loyalty,  loyalty 
that  held  no  exceptions,  —  Anstell  shrugged.  He  was 
no  miracle  worker,  like  —  and  his  thin,  wide  lips  relaxed 
in  his  rare  grin  —  Jane  Maynard.  He  wasn't.  He 
could  get  it  from  most,  but  not  from  all.  However,  Tom 
Barnett,  jobless,  blacklisted,  would  be  a  living  example 
to  all  other  newspaper  men  that  loyalty  was  the  only  safe 
policy. 

And,  of  course,  the  man  who  had  bent  the  industries 
and  finances  of  a  nation  to  his  will  would  think  of  other 
methods  of  subduing  the  flames  of  young  passion.  Had 
ridicule  been  his  only  weapon,  he  would  have  given  way 
to  fur}r,  costly  to  one's  mental  and  physical  well-being 
though  fury  might  have  been.  But  he  had  a  score,  a 
thousand  strings  to  his  bow.  One  young  woman,  —  his 
grin  became  a  harsh  chuckle. 


152  THE  DAY  OF  FAITH 

His  secretary  entered,  quietly,  deferentially. 

"  Judge  Galway,"  he  said. 

Anstell's  thin  lips  pursed.  He  hesitated  a  moment. 
"  Send  him  in,"  he  ordered. 

The  secretary  departed,  a  moment  later  to  return, 
holding  the  door  wide  for  the  entrance  of  Judge  Galway. 
Anstell  rose  as  the  eminent  lawyer  entered.  It  was  his 
fancy  to  treat  men  like  Galway  as  though  he  considered 
them  his  equals.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  he  despised  the  law- 
yer, whose  title  was  one  of  courtesy,  due  to  his  service 
upon  the  Federal  bench  thirty  years  ago.  Anstell  de- 
spised him  because,  with  all  the  cunning  in  the  world,  he 
played  monkey  paw  to  Anstell's  cat.  Without  that  ag- 
gressive greed,  hoggishness,  that  had  placed  Anstell  in 
his  supreme  position,  it  was  nevertheless  Galway  who  al- 
ways showed  Anstell  where  the  chestnuts  were,  showed  him 
how  they  might  be  obtained,  and  then,  at  his  master's 
order,  did  the  fetching  himself.  Anstell  paid  him  well, 
a  fabulous  salary,  indeed.  But  the  major  portion  of  the 
chestnuts  came  to  Anstell  —  always. 

"  Good  morning,  Judge,"  he  said. 

Galway  nodded  solemnly,  judicially.  He  was  a  cau- 
tious man.  Behind  every  cloud  lay  the  sun ;  when  the  sun 
shone  the  clouds  were  close  at  hand;  it  was  as  well  to  be 
dubious,  reserved,  about  all  things.  To  commit  one's  self 
to  any  opinion  might  be  dangerous. 

He  sat  down  and  cleared  his  throat.  A  jackal,  he 
waited  for  the  lion  to  roar  before  his  own  unmelodious 
wailings  should  be  emitted. 

"  How're  things  ?  "  demanded  Anstell. 

The  judge  shook  his  head.  "  Ve-ry,  ve-ry  bad, 
Michael,"  he  said. 

He  was  one  of  the  few  permitted  to  address  the  billion- 
aire by  his  given  name,  and  he  took  every  possible  op- 
portunity to  show  off  his  privilege.  It  did  him  good  to 


THE  DAY  OF  FAITH  153 

"  Michael  "  the  billionaire  even  when  they  two  were  alone. 
Perhaps  it,  in  a  measure,  restored  to  him  a  certain  self- 
respect  that  had  departed  many  years  before. 

For  despite  the  fact  that  bar  associations  honored 
him,  that  on  all  occasions  of  public  importance  the  emi- 
nent Judge  Galway  was  invited  to  speak,  that  the  press 
and  public  and  that  small  portion  of  the  public  known 
as  society  always  did  him  honor,  Judge  Galway,  in  his 
heart  of  hearts,  knew  that  he  had  little  of  which  to  be 
proud.  Public  honor  could  not  atone  for  that  private 
knowledge.  He  might  have  been  a  great  jurist;  he  might 
have  been  a  great  statesman ;  he  might  even  have  gone  to 
the  White  House.  Once,  indeed,  a  great  party  had  de- 
bated nominating  him  for  the  highest  political  place  in 
the  world.  But  rumors  that  had  always  been  veiled,  sud- 
denly threw  off  their  disguise  and  came  out  into  the  open, 
and  Judge  Galway's  name  was  withdrawn  by  its  sponsors 
before  ever  a  ballot  had  been  cast  in  the  party  convention. 

He  had  chosen  not  to  serve  the  people,  but  to  serve  one 
of  the  people.  But  he  had  amassed  a  comfortable  for- 
tune, and  rarely  did  the  ghost  of  dead  ambition,  of  lost 
hopes,  wail,  bansheelike,  about  his  mansion.  But  when 
it  did,  the  judge  shivered. 

"  Why  bad?  "  demanded  Anstell. 

The  judge  passed  a  hand,  mottled  with  age,  across  his 
mouth,  a  mouth  whose  meanness  not  even  his  gray  mus- 
tache could  disguise. 

"  The  Helborn  Bill  won't  be  reported  out  of  commit- 
tee ;  it'll  die  there,"  he  said. 

Anstell  frowned.  The  Helborn  Bill,  one  that  affected 
certain  valuable  water  powers,  was  vital  to  certain  of  his 
manufacturing  plans.  But  a  newspaper  in  an  up-State 
town  had  attacked  the  measure.  It  had  managed  to  ex- 
tract a  bit  of  humor  out  of  the  unfortunate  name  of  the 
proposer  of  the  measure ;  worse,  it  had  attracted  a  great 


154  THE  DAY  OF  FAITH 

deal  of  unpleasant  attention.  It  was  being  smothered  in 
committee. 

"  It  was  a  little  raw,"  he  admitted,  half  angrily,  half 
amused  at  thought  of  how  close  he  had  come  to  success 
in  a  gigantic  public  steal. 

f'Raw?"  The  judge  was  indignant.  "  It  wasn't  even 
heated,  Michael." 

"  Things  —  other  things  —  don't  look  too  good,"  com- 
mented the  billionaire. 

Judge  Galway  spread  his  hands  in  a  pious  gesture. 
"  The  people  have  lost  all  reverence,  Michael." 

Anstell  stared  at  him;  his  protuberant  Adam's  apple 
moved  visibly  up  and  down  in  his  lean  throat;  his  thin 
cheeks  took  on  a  flush  of  anger;  his  keen  nose  seemed  to 
grow  sharper,  while  his  blue  eyes  blazed. 

"  By  the  lord,  Galway,  you  struck  an  immortal  truth. 
Reverence !  That's  exactly  it.  The  one  word  that  sums 
it  all  up:  this  damned  anarchy  that's  sweeping  the  world; 
this  incitement  of  the  mob  against  the  men  who  have 
made  the  world  possible  to  live  in;  this  desire  for  new 
things,  —  reverence.  There's  no  more  of  it  in  the  world, 
Judge." 

The  judge  beamed  upon  his  employer.  It  was  not  often 
that  Michael  Anstell  praised  the  words  of  his  employes. 
He  did  the  talking;  they  listened. 

"  Reverence,"  repeated  Anstell.  "  Why,  in  my  day, 
people  went  to  church;  they  respected  good  deeds,  good 
institutions,  good  citizens.  There  —  there  was  some  sort 
of  tradition  in  the  hearts  of  the  people.  Not  the  same 
sense  of  tradition  that  existed  in  England,  for  example, 
but  —  a  remembrance  of  what  this  nation  stood  for,  what 
its  founders  had  felt  and  believed  —  all  gone  now." 

"This  country,"  said  the  judge,  "is  nothing — to 
most  of  the  mob  —  but  a  place  to  make  a  living  in." 

"  By  the  lord,  you  expressed  it  again,"  said  Anstell 


THE  DAY  OF  FAITH  155 

approvingly.  "  A  place  to  live  in.  That's  all.  No 
pride  in  its  great  institutions,  in  the  men  who've  made  this 
country  what  it  is.  My  lord,  Judge,  we  rich  men  of  this 
country  could  afford  to  spend  a  pretty  penny  to  awaken 
a  proper  sense  of  respect,  of  reverence  for  established 
things,  in  this  country  of  ours." 

The  judge  sighed.  "  Too  late,  Michael.  They've  gone 
hunting  after  strange  gods " 

"  And  they're  bringing  back  strange  demons,"  pro- 
nounced Anstell,  grimly. 

The  two  old  men  nodded  their  heads  solemnly.  An- 
stell broke  the  silence. 

"  Take  that  son  of  mine,  for  instance.  Think  he  has 
any  reverence  for  me,  any  respect  for  what  I've  done? 
None  at  all.  He's  in  love  with  a  crazy  girl  who's  got 
religious  mania  —  you've  read  of  her,  Jane  Maynard." 

The  judge  nodded.  "  Remarkable  story  about  her  in 
the  Blade  to-day,"  he  said. 

Anstell  hit  the  table  with  his  bony  old  hand.  "  Proves 
the  point  —  exactly.  Here  I  give  orders  to  have  her 
made  a  joke  —  you  know,  ridicule  her  out  of  town,  open 
John's  eyes  that  way.  And  what  happens?  The  re- 
porter, given  definite  orders,  turns  out  that  mess  of  hash 
you  read  this  morning.  I've  had  him  discharged  —  small 
satisfaction  in  that,  seeing  that  he'd  already  resigned. 
And  I'll  have  him  blacklisted,  but  —  what  a  generation ! 
A  thing  like  that  would  have  been  unthinkable  in  our 
day." 

"  Right,"  agreed  the  judge.  "  So  John's  fallen  in 
love?  " 

"  He  doesn't  know  it —  but  I  do,"  said  Anstell. 

"  But  you  can  stop  it,"  suggested  the  judge. 

Anstell  shrugged.  "  I'm  fond  of  John,  you  know,  Gal- 
way.  The  usual  thing  —  won't  do.  Oh,  I'll  find  a  score 
of  ways  to  head  off  anything  serious,  but " 


156  THE  DAY  OF  FAITH 

Galway's  mustache  lifted  in  a  grin.  It  exposed  stained 
old  teeth,  long,  like  the  fangs,  almost  of  an  animal. 

"  See  the  girl.     That's   the  usual  way,  Michael." 

Anstell  shrugged;  he  cleared  his  throat,  one  of  his  cus- 
tomary ways  of  indicating  that  a  subject  was  dismissed. 

"  About  Carthew,"  he  said.  "  What  sort  of  a  gover- 
nor would  he  make?  " 

Again  Galway's  hands  spread  in  that  deprecatingly 
pious  gesture.  "  Who  can  tell  what  man  will  keep  his 
promises  nowadays?  "  he  demanded.  "  They  become  am- 
bitious and  forget  that  it  is  men  like  you  and  men  like 
you  alone  who  can  gratify  ambition,  Michael.  Also,  they 
become  afraid.  But  —  I've  sounded  him." 

"  H'm,"  said  Anstell.  He  pressed  the  bell  that  would 
summon  his  secretary,  and  Judge  Galway  took  the  hint. 
Alone,  the  billionaire  walked  to  the  window  and  looked 
down  upon  the  city.  But  to-day  he  did  not  receive  yes- 
terday's thrill  of  ownership.  The  Helborn  Bill  —  Gal- 
way's uncertainty  regarding  Carthew  —  things  that  rad- 
icals were  doing  in  Congress  —  certain  noncomplaisant 
judges 

Reverence.  There  was  none  of  it  in  the  world.  His 
thoughts  reverted  to  John,  to  Jane  Maynard.  See  the 
girl,  Galway  had  suggested.  Well,  why  not?  There 
might  be  something  in  it. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

JOHN  ANSTELL  was  not  the  shrewdest  man  in  the  world ; 
his  father  was  popularly  supposed  to  be.  Which  is  why, 
perhaps,  John  was  popular  and  his  father  was  hated. 
For  we  do  not  like  shrewd  people.  We  may  possibly  ad- 
mire them  and  probably  envy  them,  but  we  do  not  like 
them.  In  a  world  where  the  shrewd  prosper  and  the  guile- 
less starve,  logically  our  regard  should  be  given  to  the 
shrewd.  But  it  is  a  most  illogical  world.  We  reason 
very  little;  we  feel  a  great  deal.  And  from  the  day  when 
the  first  blundering  giant  was  tricked  by  an  undersized 
dwarf,  the  world  has  held  contempt  for  the  man  whose 
brain  is  too  cunning.  It  is  a  contempt  inspired  by  fear. 
The  shrewd  man  may  injure  us  in  a  way  which  we  cannot 
combat,  canot  even  resent. 

Neither  was  John  Anstell  the  most  guileless  youth  of 
his  age  that  might  have  been  found  on  the  island  of  Man- 
hattan. One  cannot  possess  a  practically  unlimited  al- 
lowance during  the  age  of  adolescence  without  learning  to 
be  "  wise,"  even  though  one  may  not  acquire  wisdom. 

In  his  apartment  on  Bryant  Square  —  far  enough  re- 
moved from  his  father's  Murray  Hill  mansion  to  feel  free, 
yet  near  enough  to  make  easy  of  accomplishment  those 
filial  duties  which  the  young  man  occasionally  felt  im- 
pelled to  perform  —  young  Anstell  reaJ  Tom  Barnett's 
story  in  the  Morning  Blade. 

He  read  it  twice,  and  when  he  put  the  newspaper  down 
at  last,  he  sat  staring  at  vacancy  while  the  coffee  cooled. 

He  knew  his  father.  Michael  Anstell  had  shown,  as 
definitely  as  he  ever  showed  anything  to  his  son,  that 


158  THE  DAY  OF  FAITH 

there  would  be  trouble  if  young  John  disobeyed  his  orders 
concerning  Jane  Maynard. 

Orders !  The  old  man,  for  the  first  time  in  his  life,  had 
used  that  word  to  his  son.  Orders!  John  felt  his  back 
straightening  now,  at  remembrance  of  the  harsh  word. 
He'd  asked  obedience.  Yes,  there'd  be  trouble  if  John 
engaged  himself  to  marry  Jane  Maynard.  John  had 
fully  recognized  that  fact  as  he  had  left  old  Michael's 
office.  And,  recognizing  it,  he  had  grinned.  It  had  not 
been  an  entirely  mirthful  grin ;  it  was  a  thing  of  the  lips 
that  did  not  communicate  itself  to  the  eyes.  A  canny  ob- 
server, noting,  would  have  seen  the  resemblance  to  the 
father  in  the  young  man,  a  resemblance  that  ordinarily 
was  not  observable  at  all. 

For,  of  course,  it  didn't  matter,  in  the  last  analysis, 
what  orders  Michael  Anstell  gave  to  his  son.  He  would 
render  unto  Cocoar  the  things  which  were  Caesar's,  but,  — 
no  more.  In  matters  of  business,  he  would  give  to  his 
father  an  unflinching  loyalty ;  in  matters  of  sentiment,  — 
that  was  something  else. 

That  the  stern  old  man  with  the  beaked  nose  and  the 
glinting  eyes  could  be  capable  of  disinheriting  his  son, 
despite  his  statement  that  he  played  fair,  was  something 
that  John  understood.  And,  understanding,  the  grin  lin- 
gered on  his  lips.  He  held  no  exalted  opinion  of  him- 
self, but,  after  all,  he  felt  that  he  was  as  good  as  many  a 
youth  whom  he  knew  earned  more  than  a  decent  living  for 
himself.  The  son  of  Michael  Anstell  could  take  care  of 
himself.  , 

Then  his  grin  reached  up  across  his  cheeks  to  the  cor- 
ners of  his  eyes,  entered  his  eyes,  and  the  grin  lost  all  its 
hardness.  He  was  counting  chickens  before  they  wrere 
hatched.  The  way  he  argued  with  himself  one  would 
think  that  there  was  nothing  to  be  done  but  notify  Jane 


THE  DAY  OF  FAITH  159 

Maynard  of  their  impending  marriage.  Yet,  she'd  have 
.something  to  say  about  it. 

And,  when  you  came  right  down  to  it,  wasn't  he  rather 
taking  his  own  feelings  for  granted?  Had  he  ever  seri- 
ously asked  himself  if  he  were  in  love  with  Jane  Maynard? 
Was  he? 

It  was  in  order  to  ponder  this  question  that  he  had 
stayed  away  from  the  Foundation  the  previous  night,  had 
devoted  himself  to  meditation.  For  he  saw  himself  with  a 
clarity  that  is  given  to  few  to  possess,  and  those  few  are 
seldom  young.  He  knew  that  life  had  been  very  attrac- 
tive thus  far,  and  that  its  attractions  grew  each  day. 
He'd  seen  enough  of  money  to  possess  a  healthy  respect 
for  its  good  qualities  and  a  healthy  disdain  for  its  bad. 
For  he  knew  that  money,  though  an  inanimate  thing,  is 
able  to  exaggerate  the  qualities,  whether  for  good  or  evil, 
of  its  owners,  and  therefore  is  in  effect  almost  animate. 

Now  never  has  there  been  an  age  when  youth  and 
money  could  find  more  joy  in  life  than  in  this  age  of  ours. 
To  give  up  that  perfect  freedom  for  the  sake  of  gentle 

gray  eyes,  a  kissable  mouth He  did  want  her ;  he 

wanted  her  more  than  he  wanted  his  father's  billion  or  the 
things  that  billion  could  purchase. 

This  was  the  answer  to  the  question.  He  was  in  love 
with  her.  Of  course  there  were  other  matters,  — the  girl's 
feelings,  for  instance.  But  he  was  pretty  confident  that 
there  was  no  one  else;  and  where  there  was  no  rival  the 
way  might  be  a  trifle  easier. 

Then  why  —  this  because  he  was  not  too  guileless  — 
did  the  Blade  print  such  an  amazing  article  about  Jane 
in  this  morning's  issue?  He  knew  his  father  pretty  well, 
or  thought  that  he  did. 

Old  Michael  Anstell  was  not  a  man  to  overlook  an 
important  detail.  He  owned  the  Blade.  He  would  cer- 
tainly see  to  it  that  his  newspaper  refrained  from  prais- 


160  THE  DAY  OF  FAITH 

ing  a  person  who  annoyed  him.  He  knew  his  father.  His 
reasoning,  if  applied  to  some  one  other  than  old  Michael, 
might  seem  far-fetched,  but  —  he  believed  in  it. 

What  was  his  father's  little  game?  Then,  aloud,  he 
laughed  and  reached  for  his  now-chilled  coffee.  He  was 
ascribing  to  his  father  an  almost  supernatural  power. 
He  must  not,  merely  because  he  happened  to  be  in  love, 
lose  his  sense  of  proportion,  of  the  ridiculous. 

He  knew  that  love  was  supposed  to  make  people  sensi- 
tive; he'd  not  known,  until  now,  that  it  made  them  sus- 
picious. 

Dressing  for  the  street,  he  began  to  think  of  Barnett's 
story  as  a  story,  a  piece  of  evidence,  not  solely  with  rela- 
tion to  his  father  and  to  himself.  Had  the  man  told  the 
truth?  Could  his  knee  have  been  healed,  even  for  a  mo- 
ment? 

He  laughed  again.  Bless  Jane's  heart.  She  was  the 
sweetest  girl  that  had  ever  breathed,  and  he  didn't  care 
a  hoot  whether  she  worked  miracles  or  not.  She'd  worked 
a  miracle  on  him,  John  Anstell,  a  miracle  of  love,  and  that 
was  enough.  As  for  Barnett 

"  This  moonshine  hooch,"  he  chuckled,  and  so  for  the 
moment  dismissed  the  Blade,  its  article,  and  the  article's 
author,  from  his  mind.  But  the  dismissed  subject  came 
back  to  his  mind  at  noon.  For,  when  he  called  at  the 
Foundation,  hoping  to  induce  its  pretty  mistress  to  have 
luncheon  with  him,  he  learned  from  the  colored  maid  that 
Jane  was  out.  And  she  had  gone  to  see  no  less  a  person 
than  Michael  Anstell. 

Every  suspicion  that  had  possessed  him  at  breakfast 
multiplied  itself  a  score  of  times.  Jane  was  with  his 
father.  Why?  And  again  why  the  article  in  the  Blade? 

Was  it  possible  that A  vicious  suspicion  flashed 

through  his  brain;  he  dismissed  it  immediately,  but  it 
would  not  take  his  commands ;  it  came  back  again. 


THE  DAY  OF  FAITH  161 

For  he  knew  his  father.  He  read  the  newspapers ;  he 
read,  sometimes,  between  the  lines ;  he  read  the  implica- 
tions in  editorials  that  dared  not  be  frank.  He  realized 
that  Michael  Anstell  was  not  the  most  scrupulous  man 
in  the  world. 

This  unscrupulousness  had  never,  heretofore,  worried 
John.  Nor  is  it  well  or  wise  to  condemn  him  too  hastily 
because  he  had  been  complacent. 

The  world  conforms.  Not  to  conform  is  to  render 
oneself  unpleasantly  conspicuous,  marked  for  disgrace  and 
worse,  sometimes.  It  is  a  world  filled  with  jealousy.  Tu- 
tors, subservient  professors,  had  answered  John's  youth- 
ful questions  with  clever  sophistry.  For  he  had  asked 
questions  when  he  had  read  between  the  lines.  And  he 
had  been  told  that  these  implications,  or  —  less  frequently 
—  direct  charges  against  his  father's  honesty,  were  in- 
spired by  mean  envy.  As  a  great  object  lesson,  one  of 
his  tutors  had  once  taken  him  to  a  meeting  of  radicals 
upon  the  East  Side.  John  had  seen  the  audience,  had 
listened  to  the  speakers.  He  had  noted  the  poor  dress, 
the  uncouth  speech. 

He  was  no  more  of  a  snob  than  the  rest  of  us,  and  no 
less.  For  we  are  all  snobs,  differing  only  in  the  degree 
of  our  snobbery.  Consciously  or  unconsciously,  we  pride 
ourselves  that  we  are,  in  one  respect  or  another,  a  bit 
better  than  our  unfortunate  neighbors.  And  what  is 
snobbery  but  pride  in  an  accident  ?  For  surely  it  is  only 
accident  that  one  of  us  even  seems  better  than  another. 

And  John  Anstell  had  been  brought  up  in  that  sacro- 
sanct atmosphere  of  the  modern  American  billionaire 
which  would  be  laughable  were  it  not  pathetic  —  or  tragic. 
Children  whose  fathers  were  laborers  pride  themselves  on 
being  "  democratic."  They  are  taught  in  school  that 
they  must  be  democratic ;  taught  by  teachers  whose  im- 
ported accents  give  the  lie  to  the  doctrine  they  profess. 


162  THE  DAY  OF  FAITH 

A  virtue  is  made  of  what  should  be  a  necessity,  for  de- 
mocracy is  necessary,  as  necessary  as  air,  if  there  is  to 
be  progress. 

In  that  atmosphere  John  had  imbibed  notions  of  class 
distinction  that,  analyzed,  are  matters  of  financial  dis- 
tinction only.  But  he  had  never  analyzed  them.  And 
so  he  had  readily  swallowed  the  theory  that  only  those 
are  opposed  to  the  wealthy  who  are  envious  of  them. 
That  there  might  be  honest  persons  whose  economic  the- 
ories were  at  variance  to  those  accepted  by  a  conform- 
ing world,  and  that  these  honest  persons  might  be  able 
to  adduce  strong  argument  in  support  of  their  beliefs,  — 
John  knew  nothing  of  all  this. 

But  he  was  not  a  fool.  His  father's  pretensions  of 
a  rough  virtue  had  frequently  annoyed  him,  even  when  he 
was  a  child,  without  his  knowing  exactly  what  it  was  that 
irritated  him.  And  now  that  Jane  Maynard  had  been 
summoned  to  a  conference  with  his  father 

He  became  nervous,  worried.  Of  course  his  father 
couldn't,  wouldn't  do  anything  to  her.  What  was  there 
to  do?  But  would  Michael  Anstell  play  as  fairly  as  John 
would  require?  And  might  not  Michael,  by  some  crude 
effort  of  bribery,  so  offend  the  girl  that  any  wearer  of 
the  name  of  Anstell  would  become  offensive  to  her? 

Had  Michael  Anstell  deliberately  ordered  a  reporter 
to  lie  about  the  Foundation  in  order,  somehow,  later  to 
discredit  the  girl?  It  was  the  sort  of  suspicion  that 
John,  only  yesterday,  would  have  despised  himself  for 
holding.  But  to-day  it  seemed  that  he  knew  his  father 
as  he  had  never  known  him  before.  A  score  of  things, 
each  unimp6rtant,  perhaps,  if  judged  by  itself,  stuck  out 
from  the  screen  of  memory.  Lumped  together  they  made 
a  sizable  total,  a  total  which  stood  for  an  unsavory  method 
of  obtaining  what  old  Michael  wanted. 

Good  lord,  he  was  an  ass !     His  dear  old  father !    What 


THE  DAY  OF  FAITH  163 

an  unfilial  pup  he  was  to  let  his  mind  become  filled  with 
evil  thoughts  concerning  the  man  who,  after  all,  in  his 
own  peculiar  way  was  fond  of  him. 

But  calling  names  has  never  been  a  method  of  securing 
victory  over  others,  or  over  one's  self.  John  Anstell  dis- 
missed the  method.  He  could  postpone  judgment  upon 
his  father;  he  could,  with  equal  justice,  postpone  judg- 
ment upon  himself.  Meantime  he  might  find  out  a  few 
facts  which  would  have  effect  upon  the  arrival  at  those 
judgments.  So  he  telephoned  the  Blade  office. 

The  Anstell  name  was  magical.  He  learned  that  Tom 
Barnett  was  not  at  the  office,  that  he  wasn't  expected, 
that  he  had  resigned.  Also  he  learned  Barnett's  ad- 
dress. He  hailed  a  battered  taxi  that  he  found  upon 
the  Bowery  and  directed  the  man  to  drive  him  to  East 
Nineteenth  Street.  There,  a  block  from  Gramercy  Park, 
in  a  shabby,  old-fashioned  brownstone  house  that  once 
had  housed  Manhattan's  nobility,  he  found  Tom  Barnett. 

A  shabby  maid  had  told  John  to  knock  on  Barnett's 
door,  and  so  his  name  had  not  been  sent  up.  Answering 
to  a  call,  "  Come  in,"  he  had  opened  the  door  and  crossed 
the  threshold,  to  find  himself  in  a  comfortable  old  room, 
whose  shabbiness  corresponded  to  the  house's  exterior 
and  yet  seemed  to  have  nothing  of  poverty  about  it.  Per- 
haps the  originals  of  some  newspaper  cartoons  that  hung 
upon  the  walls,  or  the  almost  new  typewriter  upon  a  desk 
by  the  window  took  away  the  air  of  forlornness  that 
should  have  been  there.  Young  Anstell  could  not  tell. 

From  an  inner  room  that  he  took  to  be  a  bathroom,  by 
the  sound  of  running  water,  the  voice  called  again. 

"  Make  yourself  at  home.  Hooch  on  the  table,  cigars 
on  the  desk " 

"  Thank  you,"  he  said. 

From  the  inner  room  came  sounds  of  splashing  as  he 
sat  down  in  a  chair  by  the  window.  He  lighted  a  cigarette 


164  THE  DAY  OF  FAITH 

and  was  half-way  through  it  when  the  splashing  ceased, 
and  Barnett,  in  dressing  gown  of  heavy  velvet,  entered 
the  room. 

The  reporter  stopped  short  and  stared  at  Anstell.  The 
visitor  arose.  "  Mr.  Barnett?  "  he  asked. 

Barnett's  thin  mouth  drew  down  in  his  habitual  sneer. 
"  Ye-ah,  I'm  Barnett,  all  right.  But  who  the  —  say, 
aren't  you  John  Anstell?  " 

Anstell  nodded.  Barnett's  sneer  grew  more  noticeable. 
*'  Pa-pah  send  you  around  to  bawl  me  out,  eh?" 

Young  Anstell  flushed.  "  I  came  around  to  see  you, 
Mr.  Barnett,  because — why,  because  — 

Barnett  sat  down  by  a  table  on  which  was  an  appar- 
ently untouched  breakfast.  He  reached  ostentatiously 
for  a  decanter  that  stood  by  the  coffee-pot. 

"  Won't  hurt  vour  prejudices  if  I  try  a  hair  of  the 
dog,  eh?" 

Anstell  grinned.  "  It  won't  hurt  mine  a  bit.  How 
about  your  own  ?  " 

Barnett's  hand  paused  midway  to  the  bottle.  "  Eluci- 
date," he  snapped. 

Anstell  shrugged.  "  I've  read  the  Blade  this  morn- 
ing, Mr.  Barnett.  And  —  I  had  an  idea  that  —  maybe 
—  there  was  some  truth  in  your  article." 

"  Well,  who  the  hell  says  there  isn't?  "  demanded  Bar- 
nett harshly. 

Anstell  shrugged.  "  You  spoke  of  a  hair  of  the  dog 
that  bit  you.  I'd  thought,  from  reading  your  articles, 
that  maybe  you  had  a  few  prejudices  of  your  own.  Liquor 
might  have  been  one  of  them." 

"  A  little  more  elucidation,  please,"  said  the  newspaper 
man. 

"  Well,"  drawled  Anstell,  "  people  are  liable  to  say 
two  things  about  the  author  of  that  article:  one,  that 
he's  a  liar;  two,  that  he  was  drunk.  I  thought  that  you 


THE  DAY  OF  FAITH  165 

might  have  recognized  that.  If  you  had,  you'd  be  care- 
ful about  drinking,  about  admitting  that  you'd  been  drink- 
ing last  night " 

"  I  did  my  drinking  after  that  article  was  written. 
Run  along  home  to  pa-pah  and  tell  him  that,"  snarled 
Barnett. 

"  That's  twice,"  said  Anstell,  "  that  you've  mentioned 
my  father.  I  take  it  that  —  that  you  don't  care  for 
him." 

"  You  take  it  perfectly,"  said  Barnett.  "  I  think  that 
your  father 

Anstell  held  up  his  hand.  "  There  are  just  two  rea- 
sons, Mr.  Barnett,  why  you  ought  not  to  finish  that  sen- 
tence." 

"You  run  in  *  twos,'  don't  you?"  said  Barnett. 
"What  are  they?" 

"  One,"  smiled  Anstell,  "  is  that  he's  my  father ;  the 
second  is  that  I  probably  weigh  forty  pounds  more  than 
you." 

Barnett's  hand  came  away  from  the  decanter.  "And 
because  I'm  a  miserable  cripple  you  can't  slug  me,  eh?  " 

Anstell's  eyes  were  gentle.  "  I  can't  stop  you ;  that's 
it." 

"  Noblesse  oblige  stuff,  eh?  "  Barnett  rose  and  walked 
to  the  desk,  where  he  got  a  cigar.  He  offered  the  box  to 
Anstell ;  John  declined  and  took  a  cigarette  from  his  own 
case.  Barnett  sat  down  again  by  his  untasted  breakfast. 
"  Well,"  he  said,  "  what's  the  idea,  Mr.  Anstell?  " 

"  You've  resigned  from  the  Blade,  Mr.  Barnett,"  said 
Anstell. 

"  Is  that  a  question  or  a  statement  of  fact?  "  demanded 
the  reporter. 

"  The  office  so  informed  me,"  said  Anstell. 

"  Well,  that's  a  bit  of  truth  that  came  from  the  Blade 


166  THE  DAY  OF  FAITH 

office  then.  It'll  be  a  habit  soon.  My  article  this  morn- 
ing, and  their  telling  you  that  I  was  through  — 

"  Isn't  the  Blade  an  honest  paper?  "  asked  Anstell. 

"  Aw,  don't,"  pleaded  Barnett.  "  You  leave  yourself 
too  wide  open,  and  that  noblesse  oblige  stuff  won't  carry 
me  much  farther.  An  honest  paper?  Don't  you  realize 
that  I'm  ready  to  laugh  as  I  reply,  '  Why,  your  father 
owns  it.'  And  that'd  be  plenty  answer." 

"Would  it?  "  asked  Anstell.  His  tone  was  quite  seri- 
ous. 

Barnett  grinned.  "  I  take  it  that  daddy  has  fooled 
you  a  bit,  too.  Honest?  I  wrote  an  honest  story  for  it 
to-day,  but  that  wasn't  your  father's  fault." 

Anstell  leaned  forward.  "  That's  what  I  came  to  see 
you  about,  Mr.  Barnett.  Did  my  father  order  the 
story?" 

Barnett  chuckled.  "  Not  that  story.  A  story. 
Wanted  the  girl  roasted  to  a  frazzle  —  what's  the  use? 
You  know  why,  don't  you  ?  " 

Young  Anstell  sighed.  "  Yes,  I  know  why,  Mr.  Bar- 
nett." 

He  knew,  too,  why  Michael  Anstell  had  sent  for  Jane. 
Knew  it  ?  He'd  known  it  all  along,  but  —  he'd  hated  to 
believe.  After  all,  Michael  Anstell  was  his  father. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

THERE  is  a  magic  about  great  wealth  whose  existence 
we  might  all  admit  without  argument.  All  of  us  brag 
more  readily  about  our  brief  conversation  with  Mr.  Gold 
than  we  do  about  our  real  intimacy  with  Mr.  Brain.  We 
jeer  at  those  whom  we  convict  of  sycophancy,  yet  our  own 
guilt  is  but  a  matter  of  opportunity.  When  a  delega- 
tion of  national  legislators  visits  New  York,  upon  whose 
yacht  do  they  sail  up  the  Hudson?  That  of  a  youth 
with  a  record  of  no  achievement  but  an  inherited  colossal 
fortune.  When  a  distinguished  foreigner  visits  the  coun- 
try, who  is  appointed  to  receive  him?  Some  persons 
whose  ancestors  juggled  real  estate,  or  peddled  furs,  or 
ran  a  tavern,  or  a  ferry. 

And  no  fault  can  be  found  with  this  state  of  affairs. 
When  subserviency  first  crept  into  the  human  heart,  it 
was  directed  toward  the  individual  whose  physical 
strength  made  him  a  friend  to  be  coveted,  an  enemy  to  be 
feared.  When  cunning  superseded  brute  force,  it  was 
to  cunning  that  men  bowed  the  knee.  That  rule  of  cun- 
ning has  endured  for  thousands  of  years.  But  during 
each  generation  increasing  tribute  has  been  paid  to  men- 
tality, a  thing  as  distinct  from  cunning  as  the  cool  blue 
ice  is  from  the  muddy  slime  below.  By  and  by  intellect 
will  receive  its  full  due ;  then,  later,  who  knows  but  that 
the  rule  of  heart  may  come,  and  character  take  its  right- 
ful place? 

Jane  Maynard  had  thrilled  at  meeting  John  Anstell. 
During  these  past  few  days  she  had  had  opportunity  to 
study  the  youth;  she  now  was  able  to  think  of  him  as  a 


168  THE  DAY  OF  FAITH 

personality,  not  an  appanage  of  a  billion.  If  she  thrilled 
now  at  sight  or  thought  of  him,  it  was  not  because  he 
would  some  day  be  the  richest  man  in  the  world;  it  was 
because  he  was  a  personable  young  man  with  a  merry  dis- 
position whose  attentions  to  her  were  flattering.  For  she 
had  none  of  that  sort  of  vanity  that  made  her  accept  mas- 
culine attentions  as  her  just  due.  She  was  pleased  when 
people  liked  her.  Which,  perhaps,  is  one  of  the  reasons 
why  almost  every  one  did. 

But  when  the  telephone  bell  rang  and  a  smooth  voice 
informed  her  that  Michael  Anstell  would  like  to  see  her 
at  his  office  at  the  earliest  opportunity,  she  was  thrilled 
again.  Before  she  had  had  time  to  think,  she  had  ac- 
cepted the  invitation  and  named  thirty  minutes  later  as 
the  time  of  her  arrival. 

After  hanging  up  she  regretted  her  impulse.  She  be- 
rated herself  because,  without  asking  a  why  or  a  where- 
fore, she  had  eagerly  agreed  to  call.  After  all,  she  was 
not,  she  thought,  a  snob.  She'd  mingled  with  persons  of 
power  and  place  and  fortune  all  her  life.  But  her  anger 
faded  into  self-amusement.  She  was  human,  and  a  sight 
of  Michael  Anstell  in  the  flesh  was  something  that  no 
human  could  possibly  forego.  Had  not  kings  broken  en- 
gagements with  potentates  that  Michael  Anstell  be  not 
inconvenienced?  Who  was  she,  Jane  Maynard,  to  de- 
bate with  herself  about  the  advisability  of  answering  im- 
mediately any  summons  of  the  great  Michael? 

But,  naturally,  she  asked  herself,  "  Why  ?  " 

The  question  set  her  heart  to  trembling.  Michael  An- 
stell was  the  father  of  John  Anstell.  In  that  young  man's 
eyes  she  had  thought,  of  late,  to  find  certain  things  that 
were  not  displeasing.  Not  displeasing  to  her,  but  —  to 
the  young  man's  father,  to  the  great  Michael  Anstell? 
Michael  Anstell  must  have  great  designs  for  his  only  son. 


THE  DAY  OF  FAITH  169 

She  felt  herself  flushing.  Wasn't  Jane  Maynard  as  im- 
portant as  any  girl? 

She  was  adjusting  her  hat  before  the  mirror  in  her  tiny 
bedroom  on  the  Foundation's  second  floor  as  she  put  this 
question  to  herself.  She  saw  the  color  as  well  as  felt  it 
upon  her  cheeks,  her  throat. 

"  You,  woman,"  she  said  aloud,  her  voice  severe,  "  it's 
about  time  you  took  stock  of  yourself.  Blushing  because 
a  man  —  worrying  —  yes,  you  are,  Jane  Maynard  — 
worrying  because  somebody's  father  may  not  think 
you " 

She  pressed  her  hands  against  her  eyes,  shutting  out 
the  delectable  view  of  herself  that  the  mirror  offered. 
Was  she  in  love  with  John  Anstell? 

Only  an  hour  or  so  after  John  Anstell  had  asked  him- 
self if  he  were  in  love  with  Jane  Maynard,  that  young 
woman  asked  herself  a  similar  question  regarding  John 
Anstell.  But  whereas  John  Anstell  had  found  the  an- 
swer ready  in  his  heart,  Jane  Maynard  drew  upon 
woman's  inexhaustible  fund  of  uncertainty.  She  didn't 
know,  and  she  didn't  want  to  know  —  yet.  For  woman 
engages  the  god  of  love  with  delicacies  of  combat  un- 
known to  the  ruder  tactics  of  man. 

Man  it  is  who  has  always  wished  to  reduce  the  mys- 
teries to  geometrical  proportions,  to  mathematical  for- 
mulae. Woman  has  accepted  the  mysteries  for  what  they 
are,  unknowable  things  dependent  upon  our  faith. 
Woman  is  religious ;  man  supports  creeds. 

Man  worships  form ;  woman  gives  her  devotion  to  spirit. 
And  so,  when  man  finds  that  the  presence  of  a  woman,  or 
the  thought  of  her,  arouses  in  him  certain  emotions,  he 
wishes  to  reduce  this  greatest  of  the  mysteries,  the  thing 
that  we  call  Love,  to  formula.  Does  he  really  love  her? 
But  woman  prefers  to  delay,  to  dally  with  the  sweet 
.  thought,  to  let  her  fancy  play  with  it ;  there  is  no  hurry. 


170  THE  DAY  OF  FAITH 

An  indefinite  world  is  as  delightful  as  a  definite,  all 
planned-out  one.  This  is  woman's  theory,  a  heresy  to 
man. 

And  so  Jane  put  the  question  from  her.  But  the 
other  question  —  why  did  Michael  Anstell  send  for  her 
—  she  could  not  dismiss,  did  not  wish  to  dismiss. 

She  had  read  Barnett's  article  in  the  Blade,  read  it 
with  a  certain  fear  in  her  heart.  Suppose  that  the  man 
had  imagined  none  of  his  story,  that  it  was  all  true?  In 
what  strange  spiritual  alchemy  was  she  dabbling?  Had 
she  any  right  to  arouse  in  people  hopes  that  might  never 
be  verified?  For,  until  now,  she  had  never  thought  that 
the  simple  declaration  of  faith  which  she  preached  might 
have  physical  results.  A  sudden  dizziness  attacked  her 
as  she  patted  her  hat  for  the  final  time.  Suppose  that 

she  had  unleased  some  tremendous  power Then  she 

laughed.  A  devotion  to  the  Bland  Hendricks  idea  had 
not  robbed  her  of  her  sense  of  humor.  She  mustn't  think 
of  herself  as  a  new  Jeanne  d'Arc,  some  new  Crusader 
against  the  evils  of  the  world.  That  was  the  trouble  with 
nearly  all  good  people:  they  took  themselves  with  utter 
and  fearful  seriousness.  She,  —  why,  she  was  trying  to 
believe  in  simple  decency,  trying  to  persuade  others.  .  .  . 
She  wasn't  trying  to  persuade  others  to  do  anything  at 
all.  She  was  —  paying  a  debt  to  a  dead  man,  Bland 
Hendricks. 

But  Michael  Anstell  owned  the  Blade.  John  Anstell 
had  dropped  that  information  in  the  course  of  casual 
conversation  the  other  day.  She  had,  in  common  with 
the  rest  of  the  uninitiated,  vague  ideas  as  to  the  owner- 
ship of  newspapers.  She  wondered,  dimly,  how  such  a 
man,  with  all  his  interests,  found  time  to  read  the  paper 
every  night  before  the  news  was  printed.  She  believed, 
with  a  hundred  million  other  people,  that  the  owner  of 
a  paper  practically  writes  it.  Of  course  all  of  the  hun- 


THE  DAY  OF  FAITH  171 

dred  million,  if  they  stopped  to  think  a  moment,  would 
realize  the  absurdity  of  this.  But  we  never  stop  to  think 
about  other  people's  business.  Even  our  own  business, 
which  we  delegate  to  legislators  and  to  judges,  —  our 
ideas  as  to  this  are  laughable.  It  is  only  when  some  one 
happens  to  mention  that  a  president  couldn't  possibly 
read  all  the  bills  that  he  signs  that  we  realize  the  truth 
of  the  statement.  But  to-morrow  we  have  forgotten  it. 

Michael  Anstell's  newspaper  had  printed  a  laudatory 
article  about  her.  Michael  Anstell,  then,  had  printed  it. 
So  Jane  reasoned.  And  she  was  still  wondering  why,  be- 
wildered, puzzled,  when  a  deferential  secretary,  at  the  ap- 
pointed time,  ushered  her  into  the  audience  chamber  of 
the  most  powerful  man  in  the  world. 

He  was  seated  behind  his  desk,  whose  bulk  dwarfed 
him  for  a  moment.  But  for  no  longer  than  that.  For 
the  instant  that  his  eyes  met  hers,  Jane  was  no  longer 
conscious  of  his  lean,  almost  emaciated  face,  his  physical 
smallness.  She  was  only  aware  that  a  gigantic  person- 
ality inhabited  the  room,  before  whose  presence  she 
seemed  to  become  dwarfed. 

He  rose  from  behind  the  desk,  and  she  was  vaguely 
aware  that  though  his  throat  was  the  throat  of  an  old 
man,  he  moved  with  the  vigor  of  a  man  in  the  prime  of 
life. 

"  Miss  Maynard,  you  are  indeed  courteous  to  an  old 
man,"  he  greeted  her. 

He  advanced  toward  her  and  took  her  hand  in  'his. 
She  looked  down  at  the  fingers  that  inclosed  her  own. 
They  were  leathery-skinned,  with  protuberant,  bony 
knuckles.  Yet  they  had  nothing  of  that  withered  look 
that  goes  with  age.  Indeed,  nothing  of  Michael  Anstell 
suggested  age  except  the  throat  and  the  flesh  just  above 
it  and  below  the  chin,  indices  that  cannot  be  disguised 
and  that  do  not  lie.  For  he  was  old. 


172  THE  DAY  OF  FAITH 

Though  he  had  a  young  son,  a  late  marriage  accounted 
for  that.  Michael  Anstell  was  somewhere  on  the  shady 
side  of  seventy.  How  far  no  one  knew,  for  even  "  Who's 
Who  "  had  guessed  at  the  date  of  his  birth.  Michael 
Anstell  had  always  preserved  a  certain  reticence  about  his 
early  life.  It  was  a  part  of  that  secrecy  about  impor- 
tant and  unimportant  details  that  had  later  grown  to 
be  a  part  of  the  man's  very  soul. 

She  smiled  at  him.  "  When  Michael  Anstell  summons, 
the  world  attends,"  she  told  him. 

He  laughed.     He  could  achieve  the  impression  of  mirth. 

"  You're  a  flatterer,  Miss  Maynard,"  he  told  her. 

She  sat  down  in  the  chair  which  he  indicated. 

"  It  is  you  who  flatter  —  by  sending  for  me,"  she  re- 
torted. 

He  was  seated  now  behind  his  great  desk.  "  How  do 
you  know  it's  flattery?  I  might  want  something  from 
you,  Miss  Maynard." 

Her  dimples  would  have  dazzled  a  younger  man. 

"Isn't  that  flattery?  That  Michael  Anstell  should 
covet  anything  that  any  other  mortal  possesses?  " 

He  stared  at  her ;  his  hard  gray  eyes  were  neither  con- 
demning nor  approving.  They  were  appraising. 

"  A  mind  as  well  asibeauty,"  he  said.  "  You  are  a  dan- 
gerous young  woman,  Miss  Maynard.  Beauty  is  bad 
enough,  but  when  wit  is  coupled  with  it 

"  And  you  deny  that  you  are  a  flatterer?  "  she  laughed. 

Pie  leaned  suddenly  back  in  his  chair.  It  seemed  to  her 
that  he  had  suddenly  made  some  sort  of  decision.  And 
he  had. 

For  he  had  thought  of  Jane  Maynard  as  some  short- 
haired  fanatic,  a  woman  who  carried  a  loosely  rolled  um- 
brella, wore  unbecoming  hats  and  skirts  that  hung  un- 
evenly. Instead  he  beheld  a  most  modishly  attired  young 
woman.  Her  skirts  were  short  enough  to  assure  him  that 


THE  DAY  OF  FAITH  173 

she  wore  heavy  silken  stockings,  that  her  pumps  were  un- 
serviceable enough  to  suit  the  most  exacting  of  fashion's 
devotees ;  her  tailored  suit  was  something  on  which  thought 
and  time,  as  well  as  money,  had  been  expended.  The 
jaunty  little  blue  and  gold  toque  that  she  wore  set  rak- 
ishly  upon  her  dark  brown  hair.  She  was  not  at  all 
the  sort  of  girl  whom  he  had  expected  to  .meet,  not  at  all 
the  sort  of  woman  who  might  be  expected  to  head  such 
an  organization  as  the  Foundation. 

Still,  he  might  have  known  as  much.  His  son  John 
was  not  the  sort  to  be  captured  by  a  female  parson.  This 
was  a  wily  person,  a  woman  of  craft  and  charm  as  well. 
He  had  sent  for  her  without  any  definite  plan.  Michael 
Anstell  rarely  planned  details.  Only  little  men  plan, 
them.  Michael  Anstell  saw  largely  and  let  the  little  mat- 
ters be  shaped  as  occasion  arose,  or  let  them,  indeed, 
shape  themselves. 

He  had  sent  for  her,  intending  to  find  some  way  out  of 
what  he  considered  his  son's  entanglement  with  an  ad- 
venturess. Galway  had  suggested  sending  for  her,  and 
the  idea  had  met  with  his  approval.  In  the  back  of  his 
head  had  been  lurking  the  thought  of  bribery.  But  now, 
eying  the  girl,  he  knew  that  if  bribery  succeeded  it  would 
have  to  be  a  very  deft  kind. 

"  Miss  Maynard,  I've  been  reading  a  lot  about  your 
remarkable  work  on  the  East  Side,"  he  said. 

"  You've  been  printing  some  of  the  reading  matter," 
she  said. 

His  face  changed  in  expression  no  whit  at  all.  Yet 
he  began  to  rate  her  more  highly  than  ever.  If  this  re- 
mark of  hers  were  a  challenge,  it  was  a  very  daring  one. 
Could  she  possibly  know  what  instructions  had  been  given 
the  Barnett  person?  But  of  course  not.  If  it  were  a 
thrust,  he  decided  to  ignore  it. 


174  THE  DAY  OF  FAITH 

"  And  I've  been  talking  with  my  son  about  you,  Miss 
Maynard." 

More  keenly  than  ever  he  watched  her  now.  He  saw 
her  shoulders  straighten  ever  so  slightly  beneath  the 
cloth  of  her  jacket,  that  very  feminine  jacket  with  the 
round  collar  and  looped-up  effect  at  one  side.  This 
might  be  an  adventuress,  but  not  the  common  sort.  She 
would  be  prepared  to  do  battle  for  a  thing  that  she  might 
want.  And  she  was  no  religious  fanatic.  Insane?  Yes. 
She  must  be.  She'd  been  confined  in  some  sort  of  a  rest 
cure.  But  there  were  degrees  of  insanity.  And  —  re- 
luctantly he  conceded  this  —  she  was  pretty  enough, 
bright  enough  to  all  seeming,  for  any  man  to  forget  the 
possible  cloud  upon  some  portion  of  her  brain. 

"Yes?  "she  said. 

The  monosyllable  angered  him.  Taciturn  people  were 
always  hard  to  deal  with.  A  talkative  man  or  woman 
was  easy  game,  but  the  silent  kind,  who  waited  for  the 
other  person  to  make  the  verbal  pace,  —  these  were  dif- 
ficult. 

"  I  wish,"  he  said,  "  that  you'd  tell  me  something  of 
your  plans." 

"  Why  ?  "  she  asked  him. 

"Why?"  His  surprise  was  genuine.  That  any  one 
should  question  him,  when  the  breath  used  for  the  ques- 
tion might  be  put  to  the  better  purpose  of  replying  to  his 
own  question,  was  something  new  to  Michael  Anstell  in 
these  latter  days  of  his  greatness.  But  in  dealing  with 
a  woman,  especially  a  woman  who  has  entangled  one's  son 
in  her  charms,  one  stands  upon  no  prejudices  if  one  is 
wise.  And  Michael  Anstell  was  wise. 

"  Why  ?  I  should  think  my  own  interest  in  charity 
would  answer  that,  Miss  Maynard.  Anything  that  tends 
to  the  betterment  of  the  poor " 


THE  DAY  OF  FAITH  175 

"  Why  do  you  think  that  my  work  tends  to  the  bet- 
terment of  the  poor?  "  she  interrupted. 

"  Doesn't  it?  "  he  demanded.  "  You're  located  among 
them." 

She  shrugged.  "  Because  they  understand.  At  least, 
I  hoped  they  would.  Can  you  imagine  my  starting  my 
Foundation  on  upper  Fifth  Avenue?  " 

He  smiled  his  wintry  smile.  "  But  you  feel  that  your 
work  is  for  the  rich  as  well." 

She  shrugged.  "  If  my  —  work,  as  you  call  it,  is  for 
any  one  at  all,  why  not  for  rich  as  well  as  poor  ?  " 

"  Just  what  is  your  work,  Miss  Maynard?  " 

She  looked  at  him,  wide-eyed.  "  I  don't  know,  Mr. 
Anstell." 

"  You  don't  know?     You  have  no  plan?  " 

"How  could  I?  To  —  oh,  I  don't  like  to  talk  about 
it,  Mr.  Anstell.  I  —  feel  ridiculous.  I  —  am  afraid 
that  I'll  —  sound  priggish.  To  seem  to  be  a  preacher 
—  I  don't  want  that.  I "  She  paused,  uncertainly. 

"  But  you  are  doing  a  great  work.  You  intend  to 
continue,  don't  you?" 

"  Why,  of  course,"  she  answered  instantly.  She  won- 
dered why  he  had  put  such  a  question. 

"  Of  course,"  he  agreed.  "  To  withdraw  now  —  Miss 
Maynard,  I've  been  analyzing  your  work."  He  made  the 
statement  unblushingly.  "  I  think  there's  something  in 
it." 

She  bowed,  not  trusting  herself  to  reply.  For  now 
she  knew  that  he  had  some  other  motive  beside  interest 
in  her  work ;  and  that  motive  could  only  be  her  friendship 
for  his  son.  Why  or  how  she  knew,  she  could  not  have 
told.  Michael  Anstell  was  no  easy  man  to  read;  yet  she 
had  read  him. 

"  Yes,  there's  something  in  it.  It's  a  pacifying  sort 
of  thing ;  it  calms  people  —  Miss  Maynard,  suppose  that' 


176  THE  DAY  OF  FAITH 

you  were  offered  the  opportunity  to  —  er  —  spread  your 
teachings  in  a  big  fashion  —  what  then  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know.  Tell  me  what  you  mean,"  she  asked 
him. 

He  eyed  her  again.  Charming,  witty,  beautiful  and  — 
no  fool!  Yet  —  sincere  enough  in  her  attitude  toward 
this  work,  if  that  was  what  you  chose  to  call  it,  in  which 
she  was  engaged.  A  crude  bribe  would  not  do.  But  one 
more  subtle 

"  Fd  like  to  finance  this  work  of  yours,"  he  told  her. 
"  I'd  like  to  see  a  branch  in  —  say,  Asia." 

He  felt,  immediately  the  words  had  left  his  lips,  that 
he  had  failed  of  subtlety.  Damn  adventuring  women, 
anyway,  with  their  little  prejudices  and  prides !  He 
couldn't  offer  her  an  outright  bribe;  she'd  leave  indig- 
nantly, tell  his  son,  and 

She  smiled  at  him,  and  beneath  that  smile  he  felt  the 
color  rising  in  his  cheeks.  It  was  many  years  since 
Michael  Anstell  had  blushed,  and  the  sensation  was  dis- 
agreeable. He  felt  like  some  small  schoolboy  detected  in 
some  mean  violation  of  school  etiquette. 

"Mr.  Anstell,  why  not  be  frank?  Asia?  Why  not 
send  your  son  John  there?  That  would  be  cheaper,  too. 
You  wouldn't  have  to  —  pay  him." 

Now  this  was  what  Michael  Anstell  liked.  Getting 
down  to  brass  tacks  was  something  that  he  understood. 
He  grinned,  almost  amiably,  at  his  pretty  visitor. 

"  No  sense  in  beating  around  the  bush,  Miss  Maynard. 
Glad  you  recognize  it,  too.  All  right,  then:  how  much 
to  take  your  pretty  fingers  off  John?  " 

Over  her  cheek  bones  the  red  showed;  her  eyes  glinted. 
But  these  were  not  signs  of  anger;  they  were  the  signs 
of  the  person  who,  coolly  and  warily,  is  prepared  to 
fight. 


THE  DAY  OF  FAITH  177 

"  How  much?  Shall  we  say  a  —  hundred  millions,  Mr. 
Anstell?" 

"  Just  as  you  say,  Miss  Maynard.  Thank  you  for 
coming.  Good  afternoon,"  was  Anstell's  reply. 

"  Good  afternoon,  Mr.  Anstell,"  she  said.  She  felt 
absurdly  self-conscious,  as  though  his  eyes  appraised 
every  ounce  of  her,  as  she  walked  to  the  door. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

SINCE  the  day  when  the  hare,  conscious  of  his  speed, 
sneered  at  the  clumsy  tortoise  and  thereby  lost  a  race 
which  has  since  become  historical,  power  has  sneered  at 
weakness.  Not  merely  prize  fighters  have  entered  the  ring 
filled  with  an  overconfidence  that  led  to  downfall,  but 
princes,  kings,  emperors  even,  have  grown  forgetful  of 
the  human  platforms  on  which  they  stood,  until  the  plat- 
form has  writhed  and  chaos  has  ensued. 

Michael  Anstell  rarely  made  the  error,  however, 
which  has  overthrown  champions,  wrecked  dynasties,  and 
changed  the  courses  of  civilization.  No  one  had  ever 
threatened  Michael  Anstell  but  that  he  had  weighed  the 
threat  carefully. 

This  was  no  cowardice.  It  was  hard  common  sense. 
He  knew  that  no  matter  how  powerful  any  man  was,  his 
power  was  temporary  at  best,  and  unstable  to  boot.  He 
knew  that  potentates  had  been  hurled  from  their  thrones 
by  puny,  half-witted  men  crazed  by  the  consciousness  of 
their  wrongs.  Whole  social  orders  have  been  overturned 
by  a  mob  but  yesterday  despised. 

And  because  Michael  Anstell  had  hard  common  sense, 
he  did  not  do  what  another  and  lesser  man  might  have 
done.  For  another  man,  defied  by  his  son  and  scorned 
by  a  young  girl  on  whom  the  son's  affections  were  appar- 
ently fixed,  might  have-  resorted  to  the  exercise  of  the 
brute  force  that  he  possessed. 

Not  so  with  Michael  Anstell.  Instead,  he  canceled, 
through  his  secretary,  his  appointments  for  the  rest  of 
the  day,  lunched  frugally  and  alone  in  his  office,  and  ap- 


THE  DAY  OF  FAITH  179 

plied  himself  to  the  solution  of  what  suddenly  loomed  up 
as  the  greatest  problem  confronting  him. 

He  loved  his  son.  Not,  perhaps,  as  other  men  loved 
their  sons,  taking  intense  pleasure  in  their  triumphs,  suf- 
fering in  their  reverses.  For  John  Anstell  was  more  than 
a  son  to  Michael:  he  was  an  heir.  And  when  one  thinks 
in  terms  of  inheritance,  one  thinks  in  terms  somewhat  dif- 
ferent from  flesh  and  blood. 

Not  for  Michael  Anstell  had  been  the  sweet  pleasures 
of  watching  the  clouded  brain  emerge  from  fog;  watch- 
ing the  baby  feet  take  the  first  steps  ;  noting,  with  amaze- 
ment, the  birth  of  character,  of  individuality  and  its  de- 
velopment. These  things  were  all  very  well  for  the  com- 
mon herd,  but  Michael  Anstell  walked  with  the  princes 
of  earth.  If  ever  he  felt  that,  in  looking  upon  John  as 
an  heir,  instead  of  a  son,  he  had  lost  something,  he  put 
the  feeling  from  him  swiftly,  refusing  to  admit,  indeed, 
that  it  had  ever  been  with  him. 

Dreams  he  had,  of  course.  But  they  were  not  dreams 
wherein  his  declining  years  were  solaced  by  his  son's  chil- 
dren. In  good  time,  of  course,  John  would  marry,  sub- 
ject to  his  father's  approval,  some  girl  who  could  advance 
the  Anstell  fortunes,  whose  ancestry  was  such  that  she 
could  be  depended  upon  to  furnish  sons  who  would  carry 
the  Anstell  banner  forward. 

But  now,  secluded  in  his  office,  his  meager  luncheon 
eaten,  he  stared  through  his  lofty  window  at  the  city  and 
harbor  and  bay.  John,  until  recently  looked  upon  as 
an  heir,  as  a  means  whereby  the  Anstell  place  should  be 
continued,  suddenly  became  a  human  being.  Human  be- 
ings are  not  machines,  to  be  placed  here,  to  be  set  there, 
to  be  moved  thus  and  stopped  so. 

And  because  he  was  suddenly  compelled  to  regard  his 
son  as  a  flesh-and-blood  person,  he  was  not  foolish  enough 
to  underestimate  Jane  Maynard. 


180  THE  DAY  OF  FAITH 

A  fine  girl.  So,  nodding  gravely,  he  decided.  Well- 
built,  with  that  rounded  slimness  that  spoke  of  supple 
strength.  Pretty,  too.  More  than  that,  beautiful.  As 
a  human  being  she  assayed  highly.  Michael  Anstell  had 
instantly  and  instinctively  liked  her. 

But  when  one  considered  her  as  a  possible  mate  for 
John  Anstell,  such  matters  as  beauty  and  strength,  while 
well  enough,  were  not  sufficient.  Not  that  Michael  An- 
stell held  a  trace  of  the  snob  in  his  rather  complex  make- 
up. He  had  been  born  of  humble  parentage,  denied  all 
those  early  advantages  which,  if  they  do  not  always  make 
for  material  success,  at  least  smooth  social  pathways. 
He  had  begun  his  working  days  at  the  age  of  eleven,  in 
a  small  mid- Western  town,  whither  his  parents  had  drifted 
from  New  England.  They  had  been  unambitious  people, 
of  unambitious  ancestry.  His  father  had  been  English 
and  his  mother  Irish.  It  was  the  latter  who  had  insisted 
that  he  be  christened  "  Michael." 

The  stolidity  of  the  Britisher  and  the  imagination  of 
the  Celt:  these  two  things  had  produced  him.  Imagina- 
tion had  enabled  him  to  envision  great  things ;  stolidity 
and  stick-to-it-iveness  had  enabled  him  to  achieve  them. 

Quiet,  reticent  —  no  would-be  biographer  had  been  able 
to  get  the  date  of  his  birth  —  even  secretive,  he  had  mod- 
eled his  career  upon  no  pattern,  but  had  done  each  day  the 
task  before  him  and  spent  his  hours  of  freedom  in  plan- 
ning greater  tasks. 

He  lacked  entirely  personal  vanity.  It  gave  him  no 
particular  pleasure  to  hear  the  whispers  that  always  fol- 
lowed his  public  progress.  His  private  life  had  been 
clean;  he  had  been  faithful  to  his  wife;  no  sex  scandal 
had  ever  fastened  filthy  tentacles  upon  his  name. 

Society,  which  would  have  welcomed  him,  knew  nothing 
of  him.  Public  life,  as  it  is  generally  understood,  had 
never  made  his  acquaintance,  although  he  numbered,  as 


THE  DAY  OF  FAITH  181 

recipients  of  his  bounty,  and  therefore  as  his  admiring 
friends,  the  exalted  of  the  world. 

Yet;  with  this,  had  his  son  fallen  in  love  with  a  girl  of 
the  poorer  class,  Michael  Anstell  would  not  have  objected 
to  her  on  that  account.  She  would  have  furnished  him 
with  grandchildren  to  carry  on  the  Anstell  name  and 
power. 

This  last  had  become  his  obsession.  He  had  amassed 
a  huge  fortune  without,  in  the  beginning,  exactly  knowing 
why.  There  had  been  nothing  else  for  him  to  do.  He 
lacked  the  creative  faculty  of  the  artist  or  the  inventor, 
and  he  was  driven  by  a  huge,  apparently  limitless  energy. 
Perhaps  the  fact  that  his  ancestry  had  been  unambitious 
accounted  for  his  own  great  activity.  This  mentality  had 
been  lying  fallow  for  generations ;  in  him  it  had  taken  root, 
pushed  upward,  blossomed. 

And  Jane  Maynard  was  insane.  She  would  not  do  as 
the  mother  of  the  children  of  John  Anstell.  This,  from 
the  outset,  had  been  his  assumption. 

Now,  staring  down  upon  the  scurrying  millions  whom 
he,  directly  or  indirectly,  ruled,  he  summoned  before  him 
a  mental  picture  of  the  girl.  Not  her  physical  charms: 
these  meant  little  to  him.  They  might  gratify  his  son, 
and,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  it  would  be  pleasanter  to  kiss 
a  pretty  daughter-in-law  than  an  ugly  one.  But  it  was 
her  mind  that  he  fought  to  see,  through  the  medium  of  her 
physical  attributes,  and  through,  also,  the  medium  of  his 
own  brain. 

He  liked  her  directness.  He  liked  the  way  she  had 
challenged  him.  A  hundred  millions,  she  had  said.  And 
if  he'd  accepted,  she'd  have  laughed  at  him,  and  made  it 
a  hundred  billions.  She  wanted  John.  She  was  a  young 
woman  of  pleasant  and  assured  position,  but,  that  posi- 
tion would  crumple  before  a  real  assault  made  by  Michael 
Anstell. 


182  THE  DAY  OF  FAITH 

But  she  and  John,  spurred  on  by  his  own  objections, 
might  be  married  at  any  moment.  Her  eyes.  He  came 
back  to  these.  Gray,  cool,  clear.  He  wondered  if  his 
assumption  had  not  been  too  quick.  They,  most  cer- 
tainly, were  not  the  eyes  of  an  insane  person. 

Of  course,  there  were  degrees  of  insanity,  but  he 
brushed  this  thought  aside.  How  could  a  girl  with  eyes 
as  clear  as  hers,  as  sane  as  hers,  be  anything  save  mistress 
of  her  senses? 

But,  if  she  were  that,  how  account  for  the  insane  doc- 
trine which  she  was  preaching?  He  knew,  from  his  brief 
conversation  with  her,  that  she  was  using  this  doctrine 
of  hers  for  no  monetary  purpose.  She  was  not  that 
sort.  He  knew  it. 

Then  — what? 

Slowly,  dimly,  a  thought  began  to  creep  into  his  brain. 
People  differed  on  political  principles,  yet  they  were  not 
necessarily,  the  proponents  of  either  side,  insane.  Such 
a  thing  as  an  honest  difference  of  opinion  frequently  ex- 
isted in  this  world.  And  on  matters  of  religion  there 
were  as  many  interpretations  of  the  Bible,  for  instance, 
as  there  were  persons  in  the  world.  Yet  all  of  the  in- 
terpreters were  not  insane.  Some  of  them,  at  least,  must 
be  a.s  normal  as  the  others. 

Nor  did  she  seem  the  kind  ridden  by  a  fixed  idea. 

It  was,  he  decided,  one  of  those  cases  where  the  evi- 
dence must  be  carefully  weighed.  Judge  Galway  had 
spoken  of  the  irreverence  of  the  present  day.  Suppose 
that  a  way  were  found  whereby  reverence  could  be  re- 
stored to  the  world. 

He  had,  he  imagined,  as  hard  and  matter-of-fact  a  brain 
as  existed  in  the  world.  Yet,  suddenly,  he  felt  his  mind 
seized  by  a  thought  so  tremendous  that  it  was  almost 
grotesque,  a  thought  that  dizzied  him,  that  made  him 


THE  DAY  OF  FAITH  183 

seize  the  ledge  of  the  window  by  which  he  stood,  and  grip 
it  for  support. 

Reverence!  What  a  magical  word!  What  it  had 
meant  to  the  ancient  rulers  who  imposed  priestcraft 
where  statecraft  failed,  and  obtained  their  ends  by  a  cyn- 
ical playing  upon  the  sacred  emotions  of  a  world!  Rev- 
erence !  He  wondered. 

To  consider  the  evidence.  He  walked  to  his  desk  and 
sat  down  before  it.  A  moment  later  he  was  talking  over 
the  telephone  with  Simmonson,  his  publisher.  He  did  not 
need  to  inform  Simmonson  who  was  speaking;  a  secre- 
tary, alert  to  save  his  master  wasteful  speech,  had  done 
that. 

"  Yes,  Mr.  Anstell,"  said  the  publisher. 

"  Bamett  —  the  man  who  wrote  that  article.  His  ad- 
dress/' said  Anstell. 

Simmonson  made  him  hold  the  line  but  a  fraction  of 
a  minute.  Another  fraction  of  a  minute  and  Michael 
Anstell  was  in  the  elevator,  on  his  way  downstairs.  A 
quietly  dressed  attendant,  notified  by  telephone,  from  the 
office  of  the  lobby  where  he  waited,  that  the  king  of  finance 
was  on  his  way  down,  had  signaled  an  alert  chauffeur 
across  the  street.  The  Anstell  car  was  waiting  as  its 
owner  reached  the  curb.  Anstell  told  the  chauffeur  Bar- 
nett's  address  and  entered  the  limousine.  As  he  started 
away,  the  unobtrusive  attendant  who  had  summoned  the 
car  stepped  into  another  machine.  Anstell  never  went 
fifty  feet  without  guards  at  hand. 

The  same  shabby  maid  who  had  admitted  his  son  a  few 
hours  earlier  told  the  father  that  Barnett  was  in  and 
indicated  the  location  of  his  room.  Slowly  Anstell 
climbed  the  one  flight  of  stairs.  It  was  only  at  such  mo- 
ments, when  called  upon  for  physical  exertions,  that  his 
age  was  at  all  noticeable.  Too  long  had  he  drawn  upon 
his  physical  powers  for  sustainment  of  his  mental  activi- 


184*  THE  DAY  OF  FAITH 

ties ;  they  rebelled.     But  not  seriously.     He  was  hardly 
puffing  as  he  knocked  upon  Barnett's  door. 

He  entered  in  response  to  a  knock  and  softly  closed 
the  door  after  him.  He  stood  a  moment,  eying  the  young 
man  who,  from  his  seat  before  a  typewriter,  stared  at  him 
in  open-mouthed  amazement.  Then,  as  he  advanced  into 
the  room,  Barnett  rose.  He  greeted  his  visitor  with  a 
flourish  of  his  right  hand.  He  still  wore  the  gorgeous, 
though  worn,  dressing  gown  of  the  earlier  day,  and  the 
sleeve  fell  away,  exposing  an  extremely  sinewy  arm.  He 
bowed  mockingly. 

"  Welcome,  lord  of  the  middle,  the  high  and  low  jus- 
tice," he  said.  "  Or  shall  we  call  it  injustice?  Anyway, 
it  doesn't  matter  a  tinker's  damn,  does  it?  Let  me  shake 
your  hand,  sir.  I  owe  you  a  debt  so  great  that  it  can 
never  be  paid." 

He  wrung  the  billionaire's  hand.  Anstell,  for  one  of 
the  few  times  in  his  career,  found  himself  slightly  at  a 
disadvantage. 

"  Sit  down,"  went  on  Barnett  blithely.  "  Will  you  have 
a  shot  of  hooch?  Please.  I  want  to  be  able  to  brag  of 
it.  Or  refuse;  it's  all  the  same.  Father  and  son  in  the 
same  day  refused  a  drink  of  Tommy  Barnett's  booze. 
Oh,  it'll  make  an  anecdote,  no  matter  what  you  do." 

Anstell  seated  himself  precisely  upon  the  edge  of  a 
chair.  He  ignored  these  ebullitions.  "  I  wish,  Mr.  Bar- 
nett," he  said  evenly,  "  to  have  an  accurate  account  of 
your  experiences  last  night  at  the  Hendricks  Foundation." 
The  young  man  stared  at  him.  He  turned  and  walked 
to  a  couch  along  one  wall.  Anstell  noted  that  he  limped 
slightly.  From  the  couch  he  picked  a  newspaper ;  he 
turned  and  advanced  and  handed  the  paper  to  his  guest. 
"  Better  read  your  own  snappy  little  daily,  sir,"  said  the 
young  man. 

Anstell  took  the  paper,  rolled  it  up,  and  tapped  his 


THE  DAY  OF  FAITH  185 

bony  knee  with  it.  "  Not  the  newspaper  account  —  the 
real  story,"  he  said. 

For  a  moment  their  eyes  met.  The  young  man's  grew 
hard ;  his  voice,  when  he  spoke,  was  icy.  "  Has  it  ever 
occurred  to  you,  sir,  that  your  reporters  write  the 
truth?" 

"  Your  account  is  substantially  correct,  then?  "  asked 
Anstell. 

"  Substantially?     Absolutely,"  corrected  Barnett. 

"  And  how^o  you  account  for  it  ?  "  demanded  his  vis- 
itor. 

"  How  do  you  account  for  Lourdes,  for  Saint-Anne  de 
Beaupre,  for  the  hundreds  of  cures  that  are  being  ef- 
fected in  churches  and  shrines  the  world  over?  "  coun- 
tered Barnett. 

"  Press  agentry,"  said  Anstell  laconically. 

"  You've  read  your  Bible  ?  " 

"  I  know ;  times  were  different  then,"  said  Anstell. 

"  Perhaps  people  were  nearer  to  the  truth,"  said  Bar- 
nett. 

Anstell  leaned  forward.  "  Could  they  become  nearer 
to  it  to-day,  do  you  think,  Mr.  Barnett?  " 

Barnett  met  his  keen,  almost  eager  glance  a  moment; 
then  he  turned  and  sat  down  again  behind  his  type- 
writer. He  lighted  a  cigarette.  "  What's  the  big  idea, 
Mr.  Anstell?  " 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  asked  Anstell. 

"  Oh,  quit  kidding,"  snapped  the  newspaper  man. 
"  You  didn't  come  here  to  exchange  philosophical  views 
with  me.  You  came  here  to  get  something.  What  is 
it?" 

"  Perhaps  I  want  the  truth,"  said  Anstell. 

"  Read  the  Blade"  said  Barnett  rudely. 

Michael  Anstell  was  used  to  no  such  treatment  as  this. 
A  world  bowed  before  him.  Yet,  if  his  anger  were 


186  THE  DAY  OF  FAITH 

aroused,  there  was  no  sign  of  it  in  his  voice  or  manner. 
"  I  have  read  it,  Mr.  Barnett.  You  disobeyed  orders, 
didn't  you?" 

"  Yes,  and  I  left  your  employ." 

"  And  you  speak  of  owing  me  a  debt,"  said  Anstell. 

Barnett  patted  the  sheet  of  paper  in  his  typewriter. 
"  See  that  ? '  That's  the  fifth  page  in  the  play  that  is 
going  to  make  my  fortune.  For  years  I've  wanted  to 
write  for  the  theater.  Never  had  nerve  enough  to  quit 
my  job.  Couldn't  pin  myself  down  to  outside  work  while 
I  was  reporting.  Now  —  I'm  out  of  a  job,  and  —  I'm 
working  on  my  play.  Wherefore,  the  gratitude  to  you. 
I'm  busy,"  he  stated. 

Over  Anstell's  face  spread  that  faint  smile  that  was 
so  rarely  there.  "  I'm  an  old  man,  Mr.  Barnett. 
Couldn't  you  find  a  little  courtesy  for  me?  " 

Barnett  stared  at  him.  "  My  God,  you're  a  whiner, 
then,  after  all.  I  had  a  feeling  that  you  were  like  the 
rest  of  them,  the  billionaires,  the  rulers,  and  you  are. 
When  you  can't  bully,  you  plead,  you  whine.  Go  on;  I 
like  the  sound  of  it." 

"  You're  somewhat  refreshing  yourself,"  said  Anstell. 
And  now,  strangely,  even  his  eyes  showed  mirth. 

"  Why  ?     Because  I'm  not  afraid  of  you,  eh  ?  " 

"  Because  I  think  that  you're  an  absolutely  truthful 
man.  I  thought  —  never  mind  what  I  thought  when  I 
read  the  Blade.  But  now  —  Mr.  Barnett,  was  my  son 
here  to-day?  You  mentioned  two  of  us  refusing " 

"  What  if  he  was?  "  demanded  Barnett. 

"  Why  did  he  come?  " 

"  Why  not  ask  him?  "  countered  the  newspaper  man. 

Anstell  rose.  "  I  will,  Mr.  Barnett.  And  I  want  to 
thank  you." 

"  Thank  me? "  Barnett  was  slightly  bewildered. 
«  What  for?  " 


THE  DAY  OF  FAITH  1ST 

"  For  the  truth  — as  I  just  said.  Now  I  know  what 
to  do." 

He  rose  and  simultaneously  Barnett  likewise  left  his 
chair.  He  confronted  the  older  man.  "  Look  here,  Mr. 
Anstell  —  lay  off  that  girl.  Let  her  alone.  Under- 
stand? " 

"  I'm  afraid  I  don't,"  said  Anstell. 

"  I'll  be  clearer,  then.  You  keep  your  dirty  hands, 
your  dirty  papers,  your  dirty  shyster  lawyers  that  can 
cook  up  a  scandal  at  a  minute's  notice,  away  from  her. 
Now  do  you  understand?  " 

Anstell  shrugged.     "  I  do,  but  why  do  you  — —  " 

"  Oh,  not  on  my  account.  On  your  son's.  If  you 
have  any  use  for  him  at  all " 

"  My  son's  happiness,  Mr.  Barnett,  is  my  one  object  in 
life,"  said  Anstell. 

Barnett  laughed.  "  I  suppose,  sir,  that  what  I've  said 
has  converted  you.  Now  you're  ready  to  let  him  marry 
her,  eh?  " 

"  If  he  wishes  to,"  said  Anstell  calmly. 

Barnett  could  only  stare  at  him  open-mouthed. 

As  for  Anstell,  the  big  idea,  the  biggest  idea,  he  be- 
lieved, that  had  come  to  any  man  since  the  day  of  Mo- 
hammed, had  come  to  him.  Unshaped  though  it  was, 
formless,  amorphous,  he  knew  that  it  would  resolve  itself 
into  clarity  later  on.  It  was  because  of  the  idea  that  he 
answered  as  he  did.  For  he  believed  that  in  his  account 
in  the  Blade  Tom  Barnett  had  told  the  truth.  And  if 
that  were  so,  the  idea  was  feasible. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

THE  most  uncommon  gift  in  the  world  is  the  ability 
to  recognize  not  merely  the  strength  of  the  other  fellow's 
argument,  but  its  proportion  of  justice.  Jane  Maynard 
possessed  this  gift.  And,  as  it  is  always  accompanied 
by  a  sense  of  humor,  she  smiled  as  she  descended  in  the 
elevator  from  the  lofty  offices  of  Michael  Anstell.  She 
was  still  smiling  when  she  entered  the  Foundation:  her 
lips  still  curled  as  she  sat  before  the  mirror  of  her  dress- 
ing table  in  her  bedroom  upstairs. 

For  she  knew  that  Michael  Anstell  must  know  who 
she  was :  he  must  realize  that  a  Maynard's  position  was 
quite  as  high  as  that  of  an  Anstell.  Without  snobbish- 
ness she  nevertheless  had  an  appreciation  of  the  distin- 
guished ancestry  behind  her  and  was  proud  of  it.  Of 
course,  she  was  not  wealthy,  as  wealth  goes  nowadays. 
But  Michael  Anstell  doubtless  would  not  hold  that  against 
her. 

It  was  her  position  in  the  public  eye  to  which  Michael 
Anstell  objected.  That  and  her  sojourn  at  the  rest  cure 
on  the  Hudson.  He  didn't  want  his  son  entangled  with 
a  girl  of  dubious  mentality.  That  was  his  position.  She 
knew  it  as  clearly  as  though  he  had  stated  it  in  so  many 
brutal  words. 

The  fighting  glint  had  entirely  left  her  eyes ;  the  color 
had  vanished  from  over  the  cheek  bones.  Michael  An- 
stell was  an  amusing  old  man,  and  she  smiled  at  remem- 
brance of  him.  She  didn't  blame  him.  But  she  didn't  hap- 
pen to  be  crazy.  She  was  certain  of  that.  She  had  no 
obsession  which  controlled  her  deeds.  Unless  it  might  be 


3  o 


"5  S" 


c  i -5 


THE  DAY  OF  FAITH  189 

termed  obsession  to  endeavor  to  give  the  Bland  Hendricks 
idea  a  fair  chance  in  the  world.  Fair  play.  That  was 
her  only  obsession.  She'd  not  surrender  it  for  a  thousand 
Michael  Anstells  and  their  sons. 

And  now,  as  she  made  this  mental  promise,  the  smile 
finally  faded  from  her  lips.  Opposition  may  or  may  not 
strengthen  love;  it  certainly  assists  in  determining 
whether  or  not  love  exists. 

A  few  hours  ago  Jane  had  been  toying  with  the  thought 
of  love.  Woman-like,  the  idea  was  a  ball  which  she  could 
toss  from  hand  to  hand,  high  in  the  air.  Now  it  had 
become  something  different ;  a  problem  needful  of  im- 
mediate solution.  Michael  Anstell,  in  an  attempt  to  post- 
pone an  issue  or  render  it  nugatory,  had  advanced  and 
developed  it. 

As  she  studied  the  problem,  the  most  vital  that  had 
come  to  her,  the  most  vital  that  comes  to  any  woman, 
she  no  longer  laughed  at  remembrance  of  Michael  Anstell. 
He  had  been  bland  enough,  but  behind  that  blandness 
lay  a  hint  of  menace. 

Suddenly  she  rose  from  the  chair  before  the  dressing 
table,  ceased  her  attentions  to  those  coquetries  of  toilet 
that  had  engrossed  her  physical  actions  if  not  her 
thoughts,  and  paced  the  room. 

What  would  Michael  Anstell  do?  She  had  no  fear  for 
herself,  but  for  John  —  All  that  she  had  ever  heard 

or  read  of  the  efforts  of  stern  parents  in  thwarting  the 
affections  of  their  sons  and  heirs  came  back  to  her  mind. 
The  power  of  Michael  Anstell  was  limitless.  It  was 
all  very  well  to  laugh  at  fears,  to  remind  oneself  that 
police  paced  their  daily  beats,  that  it  was  a  world  where 
the  law  of  the  majority  imposed  itself  upon  the  will  of  a 
minority,  no  matter  what  that  minority's  wealth  might  be. 

But  these  reminders  were  not  sufficient;  she  began  to 
tremble,  the  smooth  texture  of  her  cheeks  became  pallid. 


190  THE  DAY  OF  FAITH 

She  sat  down,  fighting  against  a  laugh  that  held  a  hint 
of  hysteria  in  it,  as  the  colored  woman  knocked  upon 
the  door  and  told  her  that  John  Anstell  wished  to  see 
her.  Her  voice  shook  as  she  replied  that  she  would  be 
down  in  a  minute. 

But  it  was  ten  minutes  before  she  entered  the  assembly 
room  where  John  was  nervously  awaiting  her.  They  had 
not  been  minutes  spent  in  beautifying  herself;  for  they 
had  been  minutes  spent  in  battling  for  the  control  of 
suddenly  rebellious  nerves,  in  battling  for  an  understand- 
ing of  herself,  her  desire,  her  will. 

And  she  had  won  the  battle  when  she  entered  the  room, 
where  still,  weighted  by  a  careless  book,  were  the  five  hun- 
dred dollars  of  her  uncle's  gift.  She  was  calm,  utterly 
mistress  of  herself,  to  all  outward  seeming.  But  in  her 
eyes  was  something  that  John  Anstell  had  not  seen  there 
before,  something  that  he  read,  yet,  reading,  hardly  dared 
to  believe. 

He  had  walked  the  streets  aimlessly  for  an  hour  after 
leaving  Tom  Barnett's  room.  Then  he  had  lunched,  or 
attempted  to  do  so,  for  the  food  lacked  savor.  And  now, 
having  allowed  sufficient  time,  he  had  correctly  judged, 
for  Jane  to  visit  his  father  and  return  to  the  Foundation, 
he  had  come  to  see  her. 

Neither  of  them,  a  moment  later,  could  have  told  how 
it  happened.  For  that  matter,  they  never  knew.  But 
from  eye  to  eye  something  flashed,  kindled,  consumed 
them,  and  they  were  in  each  other's  arms.  It  was  cen- 
turies, aeons,  before  they  separated,  before  locked  arms 
and  pressed  lips  reluctantly  released.  Then  Jane,  her 
voice  tremulous,  the  hand  that  patted  her  disarranged 
hair  trembling,  said,  "  This  is  the  second  time,  young 
man,  that  you've  kissed  me.  Are  you  going  to  be  imper- 
tinent, frivolous,  a  second  time,  too?  " 


THE  DAY  OF  FAITH  191 

John  stared  at  her  hungrily.  He  advanced  toward 
her,  but  she  held  up  a  restraining  hand. 

"  I'm  a  hard-working  girl,  sir,"  she  said.  "  But  I'm 
self-respecting,  and  no  man  can  kiss  me  "  —  she  blushed 
—  "  the  way  you've  been  doing  unless  he  means  honor- 
ably." 

He  grinned.  "  Trying  to  trap  me  into  a  proposal  of 
marriage,  eh?  " 

She  nodded.     "  I  surely  am,  John  Anstell." 

He  frowned.  "  Marriage  is  a  pretty  serious  business, 
Jane  Maynard.  I  suppose  you  understand  who'll  be  boss 
of  our  household." 

"  Certainly,"  she  replied.     "  I  will." 

"  It's  well  to  get  a  serious  matter  like  that  settled, 
you  know,"  he  said.  "  What  are  your  qualifications  for 
boss-ship  ?  " 

"  I'm  bad-tempered  and  selfish,"  she  told  him. 

"  That  qualifies  you.  We-e-11,  darn  it,  I  can't  think 
of  any  reason  why  I  shouldn't  propose  to  you,  Jane  May- 
nard. How'll  I  do  it?  " 

"  On  your  knees,  of  course,"  she  told  him.  "  I  should 
think  you'd  have  known  that.  All  my  suitors  propose 
like  that." 

"  Of  course,"  he  agreed.  "  And  I  always  do  it  that 
way." 

"  Then  don't  —  this  time,"  she  said.  Her  bosom 
lifted  and  fell.  "  Oh,  John,"  she  sighed. 

She  leaned  toward  him,  her  lips  parted.  "  I  do  love 
you,  John,"  she  said. 

"  I  kind  of  like  you,  Jane  Maynard/*  he  said. 

He,  too,  leaned  forward,  and  their  lips  were  touching 
once  again  when  they  heard  the  outer  door  open.  They 
stood  a  moment,  then  hastily  separated  as  Michael  An- 
stell entered  the  assembly  room. 

He  paused  a  moment  in  the  doorway.     They  could  feel 


192  THE  DAY  OF  FAITH 

his  keen  eyes  taking  in  the  situation.  "  H'm,"  he  said. 
"  Did  I  come  too  soon?  " 

It  was  Jane  who  recovered  self-possession  first.  "  That 
depends,  Mr.  Anstell,  on  what  you  mean.'* 

"  You  know  what  I  mean,  young  woman.  Has  my  son 
proposed  to  you?  " 

Jane  met  his  glance  a  moment.  Then  she  turned  to 
John.  "Have  you,  John?"  she  asked.  There  was 
mirth,  slightly  tinged  with  a  healthy  malice,  in  her  voice. 

"  I  haven't  —  yet,'*  replied  John.  He  wheeled  to  face 
his  father.  But  where  he  had  expected  to  find  anger  he 
met  smiling  assurance. 

"  Well,  if  you  don't  expect  some  young  man  who  knows 
his  own  mind  to  beat  you  to  it,  you  had  better  propose," 
said  Michael  Anstell. 

For  a  moment  John  was  taken  aback.  But  only  for 
a  moment.  He  turned  again  to  Jane.  "  Will  you  marry 
me?  "  he  asked. 

"  You  know  I  will,"  she  replied. 

Their  hands  met.  Michael  Anstell  was  a  grim  old 
man ;  not  lightly  were  his  wishes,  his  commands,  to  be 
taken.  This  smile  upon  his  lips,  that  almost  seemed  to 
have  crept  into  his  eyes,  too,  might  be  some  sneering 
mockery.  Of  course,  he  couldn't  prevent  their  marriage. 
The  same  phrase  rang  in  the  minds  of  the  young  man  and 
the  young  woman.  Nevertheless,  it  lacked  assurance; 
even  the  firm  pressure  of  palm  against  palm  seemed  to  in- 
dicate the  lack  of  confidence  of  each,  v  For  Michael  An- 
stell was  the  richest  man  in  the  world.  In  the  minds  of 
his  son  and  of  the  girl  who  loved  his  son  he  suddenly 
loomed,  in  this  moment  of  his  apparent  consent,  more 
menacingly  than  ever  he  had  done.  For  the  first  time  in 
his  life  John  Anstell  actually  was  afraid  of  his  father; 
for  the  first  time  in  her  life  Jane  Maynard  feared  any 
one. 


THE  DAY  OF  FAITH  193 

"  I  congratulate  you  —  both,"  said  Michael  Anstell. 

Now,  unbelievably,  he  was  still  smiling.  The  hand 
that  he  gave  to  each,  as  he  advanced  toward  them,  gripped 
theirs  reassuringly. 

"  You  —  you've  changed  your  mind,"  said  Jane. 

"  What's  a  mind  for?  "  demanded  Michael  Anstell. 
"Are  you  going  to  kiss  me  —  my  daughter?  "  he  asked. 

His  fury,  his  utter  uncontrollable  wrath,  would  have 
been  something  that  Jane  could  have  met  calmly.  It  is 
the  unexpected  that  always  surprises  us  out  of  our  self- 
possession.  Strive  to  meet  his  old  lips  warmly  though  she 
might,  she  could  not  repress  a  shudder  as  they  touched 
her  own.  The  caress  affected  her  as  might  the  contact 
with  some  obscene  thing.  He  was  John's  father.  He  had 
put  his  son's  happiness  above  his  own  prejudices.  She 
should  be  grateful  to  him,  happy.  Instead,  she  was 
afraid;  she  must  steel  herself  not  to  shrink  from  this  old 
man.  She  hoped  that  he  didn't  realize  her  inward  strug- 
gle, that  she  appeared  as  grateful  as  he  might  expect. 
But  she  could  not  read  the  cold  eyes  that  met  her  own. 

"  Darned  decent  of  you,  father,"  said  John  as  his  father 
turned  to  him. 

Michael  Anstell's  lips  curved  in  a  smile.  "  Why?  We 
all  make  mistakes ;  if  we  are  sensible,  we  do  our  best  to 
remedy  them.  However  —  I  didn't  make  any  mistake." 

He  paused  as  though  expecting  some  question.  None 
came  from  them.  He  continued,  "  You  see,  a  man  of 
large  affairs  —  doesn't  get  to  know  his  son.  Business, 
finance.  What  sort  of  a  son  did  I  have?  That's  what 
I  wanted  to  know.  What  sort  of  a  girl  had  he  fallen 
in  love  with?  I  wanted  to  know  that,  too. 

"  Can't  find  out  things  like  that  in  a  minute.  Can't 
find  them  out  without  putting  up  some  sort  of  test.  Well, 
I  ordered  John  to  keep  away  from  you,  Jane."  His 
mirthless  smile  —  Jane  felt  that  it  was  mirthless  now  — 


194  THE  DAY  OF  FAITH 

swept  his  face.  *'  I  see  how  well  he  obeyed  me.  I  sent 
for  you,  Miss  Maynard  —  no,  Jane,  let  it  be." 

11  Please  call  me  Jane,"  she  said. 

"  Jane  it  is.  Well,  Jane,  I  sent  for  you.  I  wanted 
to  know  whether  it  was  John  or  John's  probable  money 
that  you  wanted.  I  found  out.  If  it  was  just  his  money, 
you  know  that  I  stood  ready  to  buy  him  from  you.  You 
wanted  John." 

He  shrugged  his  lean  old  shoulders  and  held  up  his 
hands,  palms  toward  them.  Jane  noted  the  age  blotches, 
those  yellowish  spots  that  stand  for  time,  upon  them. 

"  If  you  wanted  each  other,  and  were  willing  to  fight 
for  each  other,  to  oppose  me  for  each  other,  why  should 
I  interfere?  All  that  I  want,  John,  is  your  happiness. 
You  must  know  that." 

"  Of  course  I  do,  father,"  exclaimed  the  son. 

Michael  Anstell  turned  to  the  girl.  "  You  know  that 
too,  don't  you,  Jane?  " 

"  Of  course,"  she  agreed.  She  tried  to  make  her  tone 
hearty,  but  felt  her  failure.  For,  creeping  over  her  heart, 
chilling  it  in  the  moment  when  it  should  have  been  warm 
with  joy,  was  something  that  she  didn't  understand,  some 
feeling  of  vague  distrust. 

"Then  that's  all  settled,"  said  Michael  Anstell.  He 
rubbed  his  hands  together,  making  Jane  think,  absurdly, 
of  some  bald  old  eagle  congratulating  itself. 

"  I  want  to  talk  to  you,"  went  on  the  old  man.  "  Your 
love-making  "  —  and  he  smiled  his  frigid  smile  again  — 
"  may  wait,  perhaps." 

The  girl  blushed.     The  young  man  colored,  too. 

Michael  Anstell  sat  down;  he  looked  around  the  room. 
His  eye  lighted  upon  the  table,  where  lay  Morton  Ander- 
son's gift  to  the  Foundation.  "  What's  that  money 
doing  there?  "  he  demanded. 

Jane  flushed.     She  explained  the  gift.     "  It's  been  — • 


THE  DAY  OF  FAITH  195 

I  don't  think  I  can  explain  it,  Mr.  Anstell.  But  —  it's 
somehow  —  symbolical.  If  an j  one,  after  repeating  the 
words  that  we  require,  takes  that  money  —  steals  it  — > 
I'll  feel  that  —  I've  failed." 

"  Suppose,"  suggested  the  old  man  practically,  "  that 
some  one  comes  in  without  saying  those  words?  What 
then?  " 

"  I'll  still  feel  that  I've  failed,"  said  Jane. 

"  I  haven't  said  them,"  said  Anstell. 

"  Say  them,"  said  Jane. 

"  '  My  neighbor  is  perfect,'  "  said  the  old  man  slowly. 
He  laughed  harshly.  "  You  feel  that  your  money  is  safe 
with  me  now?  "  he  asked. 

Gravely  Jane  regarded  him.  "  It  probably  is,"  she 
said. 

"  Sit  down,"  said  the  old  man.  His  words  snapped  out 
commandingly.  Mutely  they  obeyed  him. 

"  I've  been  to  see  young  Barnett,  the  man  that  wrote 
the  article  in  the  Blade.  Bright  young  man.  Good  head 
on  him.  Take  his  word  when  I'd  distrust  lots  of  bigger 
men.  Had  a  talk  with  him."  He  leaned  suddenly  for- 
ward. "  Jane,  do  you  realize  how  big  your  idea  is  ?  " 

Slowly  Jane  shook  her  head.  "  What  do  you  mean, 
Mr.  Anstell?" 

"  Don't  know  that  I  know  myself  —  exactly,"  he  ad- 
mitted. "  But  —  I've  been  thinking.  I'm  not  an  easy 
bird  to  catch.  Seen  a  lot  of  ideas  come  and  go.  Espe- 
cially religious  ones.  They  start  off  well  enough,  but, 
after  all,  they're  filled  with  hokum  that's  meant  to  be 
hokum.  The  real  thing  —  the  world  hasn't  had  it  for 
centuries.  Get  me?  " 

"  Go  on,"  said  Jane.  She  cast  a  side  glance  at  John. 
His  face  was  expressionless,  save  for  a  queer  look  about 
the  eyes,  a  look,  she  thought,  of  amazement. 

"  The  world,"  said  Michael  Anstell,  "  is  war-worn  and 


196  THE  DAY  OF  FAITH 

weary.  It's  bleeding  from  a  billion  wounds ;  it's  suffer- 
ing from  the  oldest  ailment  known  to  humanity  —  hate. 
Suppose  that  hate  could  be  cured?  What  would  hap- 
pen then  ?  " 

"  The  millennium,"  said  Jane  softly. 

"  Exactly.  But  the  world  can't  wait  much  longer  for 
the  millennium.  It's  been  waiting  thousands  of  years. 
And  what's  it  got?  This  last  Great  War,  that's  what 
it's  got.  And  this  last  war  is  going  to  breed  hundreds  of 
other  wars.  It's  a  way  wars  have.  Unless  they're 
stopped." 

He  drew  a  long  breath  and  then  mopped  his  forehead 
with  his  handkerchief.  "  I'm  no  damn-fool  pacifist  — 
not  the  ordinary  kind,"  he  stated.  "  I  don't  believe  in 
going  unarmed  into  a  den  of  thieves.  That  ain't  the 
way  to  make  peace  in  the  world.  You've  got  to  get  at 
the  den  of  thieves  first.  Got  to  wipe  it  out.  Oh,"  he 
went  on  hastily.  "  I  know  it  sounds  like  the  old  bunk 
of  the  militarists,  but  it  ain't."  In  his  excitement  he  re- 
verted to  the  ungrammatical,  somewhat  slangy  speech 
of  his  early  years.  "  There's  a  chance  for  something 
new.  And  the  funny  part  of  it  is  that  it  isn't  new.  The 
world  has  had  it  for  nineteen  hundred  years,  but  never 
used  it.  Wipe  out  the  den  of  thieves  —  yes !  But  how  ? 
Not  by  burning  down  the  den,  not  by  killing  its  inhabi- 
tants. But  by  changing  them.  How  to  do  that  ?  Your 
way,  Jane !  "  he  finished  explosively. 

"You  mean " 

"  I  mean  that  I've  studied  what  you've  been  doing. 
You've  got  something,  the  biggest  thing  in  the  world  this 
minute.  The  biggest  thing  since  we  forgot  the  teachings 
of  Christ.  And  it  can't  offend  anybody.  '  My  neighbor 
is  perfect.'  Jew  or  Gentile,  Catholic,  Protestant,  Mo- 
hammedan! What's  he  got  against  that  creed?  Don't 


THE  DAY  OF  FAITH  197 

his  own  religion  teach  him  that?  Then  how  can  he  ob- 
ject to  your  teaching  it?  "  « 

"  To  my "     Jane  stared  at  him,  her  eyes  eager. 

"  You!  Nobody  else.  Only  —  the  world  can't  wait. 
There's  wars  around  the  corner.  There's  hate  every- 
where. Society,  civilization,  is  reeling  from  a  thousand 
blows.  How  can  it  stand?  It  can't.  Unless  it  gets  a 
new  idea.  But  the  world  don't  get  ideas.  Ideas  have 
to  be  forced  on  the  world.  Well  —  you're  going  to  force 
your  idea  on  the  world." 

"How?  "     The  question  came  from  John. 

"  Organization,"  snapped  his  father.  "  Organiza- 
tion," he  repeated.  "  A  man's  got  a  great  invention. 
The  world  needs  it.  But  unless  somebody  gets  behind  him 
—  right  —  the  world  never  knows  of  it.  Money !  That's 
where  I  come  in.  Money.  Millions  —  hundreds  of  mil- 
lions! My  last  cent  if  it's  needed.  To  cure  the  world. 
To  heal  it  of  its  woe,  its  want,  its  misery  and  hate." 

Deeply  Jane  breathed.  Before  her  unfolded  a  vista 
that  dazzled  her.  A  clean  world,  a  wholesome  world. 
Yet,  adown  this  vista  seemed  to  walk  something  shapeless, 
something  unclean.  From  far  away  she  heard  Michael 
Anstell  saying: 

"  I'm  going  to  give  this  world  a  Day  of  Faith." 


CHAPTER  XX 

SLOWLY  the  amorphous  unclean  vision  —  if  something 
that  she  only  dimly  apprehended  could  be  given  even  so 
indefinite  a  name  —  faded  from  Jane's  mind.  A  Day  of 
Faith!  The  words  themselves  were  thrilling,  but  the 
thought  that  they  connoted  was  more  so.  Before  the 
overwhelming  possibilities  that  Michael  Anstell's  phrase 
opened  up,  no  doubts  could  stand.  She  leaned  eagerly 
toward  him.  "  How?  "  she  asked. 

Anstell  smiled  at  her  excitement.  "  No  details  — 
yet,"  he  replied.  "  But  to-night  —  suppose,  Jane,  that 
you  come  to  my  house  this  evening,  say  at  nine.  I'll  have 
a  working  plan  formulated " 

"  You  mean  a  universal  Day  of  Faith?  "  interjected 
John. 

"  World-wide,"  said  the  father  promptly. 

"  It'll  cost  -    -  "  began  John. 

"  Millions,"  finished  his  father.  "  But  isn't  it  worth 
it?  " 

Again  Jane  noticed  the  odd  expression  in  John's  eyes, 
an  expression  that  was  not  only  amazement,  but  that  was 
componded  of  doubt  also. 

"  Worth  it?  "  he  echoed  vaguely.  "  Why  —  of  course. 
Only "  His  voice  died  away. 

The  keen  eyes  of  the  father  fixed  themselves  upon  the 
son.  "  Only  what  ?  "  he  demanded. 

Over  John's  face  spread  a  blush.  "  Why,"  he  said 
lamely,  "I  just  —  it  will  cost  so  much  money." 

Michael  Anstell  laughed.  "  I  think  that  I've  allowed 
for  that,  John."  There  was  something  peremptory  in 


THE  DAY  OF  FAITH  199 

his  speech,  in  his  manner,  as  he  turned  to  Jane:  "To- 
night at  nine,  then,  Jane?  " 

She  could  only  stare  at  him  and  nod  her  assent.  The 
old  man  suddenly  smiled. 

"  You're  going  to  be  happy,  you  two,"  he  said.  "  With 
a  great  work  ahead  of  you,  a  work  in  which  you're  going 
to  let  me  share."  He  ceased,  as  though  his  thoughts 
were  too  tremendous  for  verbal  expression.  His  eyes 
roamed  about  the  assembly  hall  of  the  Foundation,  rest- 
ing finally  upon  the  bills  weighted  on  the  table.  He 
nodded  toward  them.  "  A  symbol,  Jane,  as  you  say," 
he  said.  "  A  symbol  that  will  not  fail  us." 

He  held  out  his  hand  to  her,  and  she  rose  and  took  it. 
Once  again  that  queer,  almost  eerie  sensation,  as  though 
indefinable  obscenities  touched  her,  crept  over  her.  But 
he  was  the  father  of  the  man  she  loved;  he  was  the  man 
who  had  just  announced  his  amazing  intention  of  mak- 
ing her  modest  Foundation  a  world  affair.  She  returned 
the  pressure  of  his  hand. 

"  I  don't  like  to  take  you  away,  John,"  he  said,  "  but 
—  there  are  things  to  be  done " 

"  Certainly,  father,"  said  his  son.  He,  perhaps,  was 
more  dazed  than  Jane.  He  knew  his  father  better.  This 
amazing  right-about  was  something  on  which  he  wished 
to  ponder.  To  remain  would  be  to  meet  questions  from 
Jane.  Until  he  knew  a  little  better  exactly  what  his 

father  planned He  left  with  Michael  Anstell.  And 

in  ten  minutes  he  was  convinced  not  merely  of  his  father's 
sincerity,  but  of  the  practicality  of  his  promise.  For 
Michael  Anstell  rarely  loosed  his  enthusiasm,  but  when 
he  did,  harder-headed  men  than  John  Anstell  believed 
him. 

Left  alone,  Jane  went  to  her  own  room.  There,  once 
again,  she  stared  at  her  mirrored  reflection.  She  studied 
herself  with  that  extreme  modesty  that  sometimes  comes 


200  THE  DAY  OF  FAITH 

to  the  person  who  loves  and  who  finds  herself  or  himself 
equally  beloved.  It  is  a  rare  thing,  this  modesty.  But 
that  is  because  so  few  know  what  love  really  is.  To  most 
it  is  tht  gratification  of  desire,  of  vanity.  But  to  Jane 
Maynard  it  was  a  complete  surrender  of  self,  and  in  the 
moment  following  surrender  she  appraised  the  value  of 
that  which  she  had  given.  She  conceded  that  her  face 
had  charm,  that  her  figure  was  graceful.  But  to  have 
won  the  love  of  John  Anstell  required  more  than  these. 
Was  she  worthy  of  him?  Did  she  deserve  such  great 
happiness?  And  how  simply,  how  inevitably,  they  had 
slipped  into  love.  She  had  not  realized  how  close  it 
was. 

She  would  do  her  best  to  make  him  a  good  wife.  Slowly 
her  thoughts  drifted  away  from  herself,  from  John,  to 
that  amazing  man,  his  father.  To  put  organization  be- 
hind a  simple  expression  of  faith,  to  spread  it  over  the 
world.  Could  it  be  done?  But,  even  if  it  couldn't,  to 

try  to  make  a  world  embrace  it Quixotic,  mad ! 

Would  a  world  bred  in  hate  turn  from  its  teachings  ?  To 
try.  .  .  . 

The  colored  woman  told  her  that  Mr.  Barnett  wished 
to  see  her.  She  was  glad  of  the  interruption  of  her 
thoughts,  for  suddenly  they  had  become  so  bewildering, 
the  project  on  which  they  centered  had  become  so  vast, 
that  her  head  ached  from  contemplation  of  it.  She  went 
downstairs  to  meet  the  reporter. 

"  Thought  I'd  drop  around,  Miss  Maynard,"  was  his 
first  speech.  "  Thought  maybe  you'd  make  that  tem- 
porary cure  of  mine  a  permanent  one." 

She  looked  at  him.  Despite  the  evidences  of  meanness 
upon  his  face,  she  looked  around,  through  his  eyes,  into 
the  soul  of  him.  She  was  not  tremendously  sophisticated, 
if  the  word  is  used  in  its  baser  sense.  Yet  she  knew 
enough  of  life  to  understand  that  what  we  sometimes  think 


THE  DAY  OF  FAITH  201 

are  basic  indications  of  character  are  but  surface  signs 
of  surface  characteristics.  A  dissipated  face.  Dissipa- 
tion makes  for  meanness.  But  if  dissipation  ceases,  mean- 
ness sometimes  vanishes.  And  he  had  written  about  her 
in  the  Blade,  written  sincerely,  honestly.  Though  his 
speech  was  somewhat  flippant  now,  she  understood  the 
embarrassment  that  caused  it,  and  which  he  could  not 
altogether  hide. 

"  I  can't  cure  anything,"  she  told  him  gravely. 

"  Your  idea  did  —  last  night,"  he  stated. 

She  shrugged.  "  You  might  have  imagined  it,"  she 
said. 

"  Perhaps  I  only  imagine  that  I  am  lame  now,"  he  re- 
torted. "  Do  you  think  that?  " 

She  shook  her  head.     "  No,  Mr.  Barnett." 

"  You  don't  believe  that  a  cripple  can  be  healed  by 
the  mind,  then?  " 

Again  she  shook  her  head.  "  Not  by  the  mind.  By 
the  soul  —  perhaps.  Mr.  Barnett,  do  any  of  us  know 
what  we  really  believe?  " 

He  smiled.  "  You  know  that  you  believe  in  the  idea 
printed  above  your  door  here,  don't  you?  " 

"  I  do,"  she  said. 

"  So  do  I,"  he  told  her.  He  took  out  a  cigarette  and 
looked  at  her  for  permission.  She  granted  it  with  a  nod. 
He  lighted  it.  He  shifted  his  weight  uneasily  from  one 
foot  to  the  other.  She  remembered  his  lameness  again, 
and  inwardly  rated  herself  because  she  had  not  asked  him 
to  sit  down.  She  did  so  now  and  supplemented  the  in- 
vitation with  a  suggestion  of  tea.  He  accepted,  and  she 
left  him  for  a  moment  while  she  asked  the  colored  maid  to 
prepare  it.  When  she  returned,  Barnett  was  staring  at 
the  money  on  the  table.  He  looked  up  with  a  start. 

"  Miss  Maynard,"  he  said,  "  you  don't  know,  perhaps, 
that  the  owner  of  the  Blade  expected  a  very  different 


202  THE  DAY  OF  FAITH 

article  from  me;  that  I  violated  all  newspaper  ethics  in 
what  I  wrote?  " 

"  You  can  hardly  expect  me  to  censure  you,"  she 
smiled. 

"  I  don't,"  he  said.  "  Neither  do  I  expect  you  to  be 
censured  by  Michael  Anstell.  You  know  that  he  owns 
the  Blade?  " 

"  He  just  left  here,"  she  told  him. 

"  And  just  before  that  he  left  me.  That's  why  I'm 
over  here,"  said  Barnett.  "  He  —  his  son  was  at  my 
rooms  earlier  in  the  day;  then  came  the  father.  Miss 
Maynard,  you  don't  use  a  bib,  do  you?  " 

She  stared  at  him  in  perplexity. 

"  Children  wear  bibs,"  he  said.  "  Their  mothers  or 
their  nurses  select  their  food,  help  them  guide  each  spoon- 
ful to  their  mouths.  You  see,  the  children  have  an  idea 
—  that  they  are  hungry.  But  they  can't  execute  the 
idea  without  aid.  Miss  Maynard,  you  aren't  an  infant. 
You  are  beyond  the  bib  period." 

"  I  hope,"  she  said,  "  that  you  are  not  intimating  that 
I  am  an  old  woman,  Mr.  Barnett." 

He  did  not  answer  her  smile  in  kind.  He  frowned. 
"  I'm  intimating  several  things,  Miss  Maynard.  I  might 
also  remind  you  of  the  Trojan  proverb:  'I  fear  the 
Greeks  even  when  they  bring  gifts.' ' 

"  And  why  do  you  warn  me?  "  she  asked. 

"  Michael  Anstell  told  me  to-day  that  he  had  no  ob- 
jection to  his  son's  marrying  you.  He  lies,  Miss  May- 
nard. If  he  lies  to  me,  he'll  lie  to  you " 

"  Aren't  you  the  least  bit " 


Presumptuous?     Of  course  I  am.     But 


"Mr.  Anstell  has  been  here,  Mr.  Barnett.  He — is 
going  to  —  to  back  my  idea " 

The  maid  entered  with  the  tea  things.  The  interrup- 
tion gave  Jane  time  to  compose  herself,  gave  Barnett 


THE  DAY  OF  FAITH  203 

time  to  think.  After  the  maid  had  gone,  the  inevitable 
questions  as  to  lemon,  sugar,  cream,  and  the  equally  in- 
evitable responses  gave  each  a  further  breathing  space. 
For,  oddly  enough,  they  looked  upon  each  other  as  an- 
tagonists. 

"  So  he's  going  to  back  your  idea,  Miss  Maynard? 
Do  you  mind  telling  me  why?  And  how?"  asked  Bar- 
nett  finally. 

She  stared  at  him.  Somehow  the  impression  of  mean- 
ness was  gone  from  his  face  as  he  put  the  question.  Of 
course  it  was  none  of  his  business ;  he  had  been  grossly 
impertinent.  But  he  had  written  that  article  in  the 
Blade;  further,  there  was  a  tenseness  about  his  attitude 
that  made  her  understand  that  not  mere  gratuitous  rude- 
ness actuated  him. 

"  Why  not?  "  she  said.  "  He  is  going,  Mr.  Barnett,  to 
give  the  world  a  Day  of  Faith." 

"  How?  "  he  asked  laconically. 

"  I  don't  think  that  he's  planned  it  all  yet,"  she  re- 
plied. 

"  Money,  of  course,"  he  suggested. 

"  He  said  —  millions,"   she  told  him. 

"  Millions,"  said  Barnett  thoughtfully.  "  On  the  idea 
that  yesterday  he  thought  ridiculous,  on  a  girl  whom 
yesterday  he  thought  insane.  And  all  because  —  so  he 
told  me  —  he  loves  his  son.  Do  you  believe  him,  Miss 
Maynard?  " 

"  I  don't  understand  you,"  she  said. 

He  smiled  cynically.  "  You  are  beyond  the  bib  age, 
Miss  Maynard.  You  understand  me." 

"  I'm  afraid  that  I  don't,"  she  insisted.  "  And  I'm  — 
rather  busy,  Mr.  Barnett " 

He  rose.  "  Of  course,  Miss  Maynard,  I've  been  un- 
pardonably  rude,  interfering,  only  —  have  you  ever  stud- 
ied religions  ?  " 


204  THE  DAY  OF  FAITH 

"Studied  them?     Why  — not   so " 

"  I  thought  not.  You've  never  realized,  then,  why 
creeds  fail?  " 

She  smiled.  "  Can  any  one  explain  that,  Mr.  Bar- 
nett?  " 

"  I  can,"  he  replied.  "  In  one  word  —  money.  They're 
built  on  hope  and  faith  and  charity,  these  new  creeds  of 
the  past  two  thousand  years,  Miss  Maynard.  Oh,  on 
fanaticism  too,  but  that  doesn't  matter.  It's  hope  for 
something  better,  faith  in  something  better.  That's  their 
foundation.  They  grow.  They  attract  numbers.  Num- 
bers mean  money,  power.  And  the  unscrupulous  attach 
themselves  to  the  blind  believers,  and  —  you  have  what 
you  have  to-day:  Christian  churches  that  have  forgotten 
all  that  Christ  taught,  that  speak  no  longer  the  word  of 
the  Saviour,  but  the  word  of  the  money  changers  whom. 
He  scourged  from  the  Temple. 

"  Money,  Miss  Maynard !  The  root  of  evil !  Do  you 
want  it  defiling  your  simple  creed  so  soon?  " 

She  was  bewildered  by  the  suddenness  and  vigor  of 
his  attack. 

"  But,  Mr.  Barnett,  you  have  no  right  to  talk  this 
way." 

"  Of  course  I  haven't,"  he  agreed. 

"  You  don't  even  know  what  Mr.  Anstell  is  planning." 

"Do  you?"  he  countered. 

"  Why  — •  his  plans  —  I  don't  know  them  — yet.  But 
I  will.  He  wants  to  spread  the  Hendricks  doctrine  all 
over  the  world " 

"Why?"  demanded  Barnett. 

"Why?"  she  echoed  vaguely.  "Why  —  because  he 
believes  in  it." 

Barnett  laughed.     "  Do  you  think  he  does  ?  " 

"  Of  course,"  she  said  simply.  Then,  thoroughly  an- 
gered now,  she  broke  into  vehement  speech.  "  Mr.  Bar- 


THE  DAY  OF  FAITH  205 

nett,  the  world  is  war-worn,  hate-worn.  Mr.  Anstell  be- 
lieves that  what  we  are  doing  down  here  in  Carey  Street 
can  be  done  all  over  the  world.  Why,  your  insinuations 
—  are  ridiculous.  It  will  cost  Mr.  Anstell  millions. 

Why  should  he "  She  suddenly  colored  vividly. 

"  He  wishes  his  son  to  marry  me,"  she  said. 

It  was  a  queer  thing  for  her  to  say;  the  daughter  of 
Marley  Maynard  discussing  her  love  affair  with  a  man 
whom  she  barely  knew.  But  his  innuendoes  frightened 
her,  although  she  could  not  understand  why. 

"  So  he  told  me,'*  said  Barnett. 

"Why  should  he  tell  you?"  she  demanded.  "Why 
should  he  discuss  me  with  you?  " 

"  Because  I  warned  him  to  keep  his  newspapers  and 
his  shyster  lawyers  .away  from  you,  Miss  Maynard. 
That's  why  ." 

"  You  did  that  ?  "  The  anger  faded  from  her  eyes  as 
she  held  out  her  hand  to  him.  "  That  was  —  fine  of  you, 
Mr.  Barnett." 

He  shrugged,  one  might  have  thought,  impatiently. 
But  Jane  knew  that  he  was  embarrassed.  Suddenly  she 
liked  Tom  Barnett.  His  past  might  not  be  the  most 
pleasant  thing  in  the  world,  but  —  he  was  no  coward, 
and  he  was  honest. 

"  Not  at  all,"  he  said.  "I  —  you're  delivering  the 
goods,  Miss  Maynard,  and  I'm  for  any  one  who  can  de- 
liver. That's  why  -  -  " 

"  And  you  don't  want  me  to  —  deliver  —  on  a  bigger 
scale?  "  she  interrupted. 

"  I  don't  want  you  interfered  with.  I  want  you  to  go 
slowly " 

"  That's  the  very  thing,"  she  cried.  "Slowly !  With 
a  world  bruised,  bleeding,  crying  out  for  light " 

"  And  Michael  Anstell  is  to  be  the  little  torch  bearer, 
eh?  "  He  chuckled.  "  Somehow,  you  know,  Michael 


THE  DAY  OF  FAITH 

Anstell  doesn't  appeal  to  me  as  a  prophet  of  the  Golden 
Rule,  Miss  Maynard.  His  past  — 

"  You  have  no  past  yourself,  Mr.  Barnett,  of  course?  " 
she  asked  sweetly. 

He  colored.  Then  he  laughed.  "  Fair  enough,  Miss 
Maynard.  I'm  afraid  that  I'm  a  sort  of  cynical  person. 
I  wish  that  —  you'd  go  slow." 

"  Youth  isn't  ordinarily  so  conservative,"  she  said. 

"I'm  not,"  he  told  her.  "Only  — well,  it's  none  of 
my  business,  anyway." 

"  Oh,  but  it  is,"  she  said.  "  Your  article  unques- 
tionably made  Mr.  Anstell  investigate,  see  things  differ- 
ently. It  is  your  business,  Mr.  Barnett." 

"  That's  kind  of  you,"  he  told  her.  He  saw  that  she 
was  acquitting  him  of  rudeness  and  was  grateful  for  her 
tact. 

He  rose  to  his  feet.  He  felt  suddenly  awkward.  "  If 
I  can  —  be  of  any  help,  Miss  Maynard  —  any  time  — 
I'd  like  to,  you  know." 

"  Thank  you,  Mr.  Barnett.'*  Impulsively  she  held  out 
her  hand,  and  he  took  it.  She  saw  him  color  furiously, 
but  her  heart  was  too  filled  with  another  man  to  wonder 
why. 

Once  again  in  her  room  she  sat  before  the  mirror.  But 
this  time  she  eyed  herself  not  searchingly,  but  only  me- 
chanically, as  she  arranged  her  hair  for  the  evening.  She 
gave  herself  over  again  to  the  thrill  that  had  been  aroused 
by  the  promise  of  Michael  Anstell.  To  be  the  bringer 
of  a  new  ideal,  to  spread  kindliness,  happiness,  into  a 
crazed  world. 

She  was  sorry  for  Tom  Barnett.  A  cynic,  he  dis- 
trusted everybody,  everything.  A  sudden  fear  shook  her. 
Was  Michael  Anstell  pretending  in  order  somehow  to 
separate  her  from  John?  Had  this  been  his  meaning? 


THE  DAY  OF  FAITH  207 

Was  this  the  plan  behind  his  strange  enthusiasm,  his 
amazing  promise? 

But  she  wouldn't  believe  it.  What  good  would  it  do 
him?  Little  as  she  knew  Michael  Anstell,  she  read  him 
well  enough  to  know  that  his  methods  would  not  be  wild, 
aimless.  If  he  wanted  to  separate  John  and  herself* 
there  were  other  more  direct  ways  than  pretending  to  ap- 
prove of  her  ideas. 

Another  thought  came  to  her,  contradicting  this  last 
conclusion :  Was  he  intending  to  make  her  ridiculous  be- 
fore the  world?  Then,  proudly,  her  shoulder  squared. 
Bland  Hendricks  had  died  for  that  idea.  Who  was  she 
to  shrink  at  thought  of  ridicule?  Moreover,  what  was 
ridiculous  in  what  she  was  doing?  It  was  Truth  she 
preached,-  a  forgotten  truth  that  must  now  prevail  in  the 
world.  Again:  Was  she  not,  in  these  doubts  of  Michael 
Anstell,  denying  this  creed  of  hers?  How  could  she  ex- 
pect others  to  believe  if  she  disbelieved?  Michael  An- 
stell was  perfect  as  the  rest  of  the  world. 

"  'Physician,  heal  thyself,'  "  she  murmured. 


.     CHAPTER  XXI 

SLINKING  along,  fearful  lest  the  eye  of  Allen  or  some 
other  plain-clothes  man  light  upon  him,  Yegg  Darby  was 
grateful  for  the  hour.  It  was  after  dark,  and  although 
the  lights  illuminated  the  doorway  of  the  Hendricks 
Foundation,  although  the  city's  arc  lights  outlined  each 
face  that  passed  beneath  them,  there  were  nevertheless 
dark  spots  where  one's  features  were  not  recognizable. 

Of  course  he  didn't  know  any  particular  reason  why 
Allen  or  any  other  police  official  should  annoy  him  now. 
But  on  general  principles  they  might  arrest  him.  And 
there  was  something  else.  If  it  is  true  that  the  police 
have  sources  of  inside  information  as  to  the  doings  of 
the  professional  criminals,  it  is  equally  true  that  rumors 
seep  down  from  police  headquarters  to  the  haunts  of  the 
underworld.  Somehow,  through  somebody,  the  word  had 
been  spread  that  Yegg  Darby  was  a  "  squealer.'*  He 
had  tipped  a  bull  to  Montreal  Sammy,  and  that  good 
man  and  true  was  back  in  Sing  Sing  doing  his  life  stretch. 

Not  to  revenge  the  betrayal  of  Montreal  Sammy,  but 
to  put  a  dangerous  citizen  out  of  the  way,  to  prevent  pos- 
sible future  betrayal  of  another:  for  this  might  some 
one,  lurking  in  a  shadow,  speed  a  bullet  from  his  "  gat  " 
to  the  utter  undoing  of  Yegg  Darby,  the  Squealer.  It 
behooved  Yegg  Darby  to  walk  softly,  to  mind  his  ways. 
So  twice  he  passed  the  Foundation  without  entering.  It 
was  all  very  well  to  take  what  stock  you  chose  in  the  rig- 
marole carved  above  the  doorway,  but  a  wise  guy  may 
believe  that  words  are  more  potent  than  lethal  weapons 
and  still  preserve  a  wholesome  respect  for  the  latter. 


THE  DAY  OF  FAITH  209 

Suppose,  just  suppose,  that  every  one  in  this  neigh- 
borhood didn't  happen  to  believe  in  that  junk  they  tossed 
you  at  the  Foundation !  One  of  the  disbelievers  would 
as  soon  bump  a  guy  off  in  the  light  of  its  electrics  as 
around  the  corner  up  a  dark  alley. 

There  were  too  many  people  entering  the  Foundation. 
Yegg  Darby  bit  his  finger  nails.  He  simply  had  to  see 
"  the  nutty  dame  that  ran  the  dump."  No  way  out  of 
it.  He  didn't  know  why  he  had  to ;  he  didn't  understand 
himself.  If  he  had  been  offered  a  thousand  dollars  to 
explain  his  actions  of  to-day,  he  could  never  have  earned 
the  thousand. 

Something  had  happened  to  Yegg  Darby,  the  Squealer, 
the  Stool.  It  wasn't  religion.  He  would  have  jeered  you 
justly  had  you  uttered  so  silly  a  suggestion.  It  wasn't 
fear.  The  yellowest  rat  of  the  underworld,  as  he  had 
been  truly  described,  he  nevertheless  possessed  the  rat's 
ability  to  fight  when  cornered.  If  it  had  been  fear  that 
had  actuated  him,  it  would  have  been  far  easier  to  make  a 
getaway  than  deliberately  to  visit  Sing  Sing.  If  it  had 
been  fear,  he  would  have  spread  the  news  broadcast  that 
he  and  Montreal  Sammy  were  pals  again. 

No,  it  had  been  something  else.  Perhaps,  though  Yegg 
Darby  didn't  know  it,  it  had  been  that  longing  for  friend- 
ship that  exists  in  all  of  us.  He'd  done  Montreal  Sammy 
dirt.  Montreal  Sammy  was  the  only  living  human  who 
had  tolerated  him.  He  must  square  it  somehow.  He 
must  regain  standing  in  the  eyes  of  Montreal  Sammy, 
even  though  the  rest  of  the  world  continued  to  despise 
him. 

And  so  he  lurked  in  the  neighborhood  of  the  Founda- 
tion, trying  to  spur  himself  up  to  the  point  of  entrance. 
It  was  while  he  still  fought  for  courage  to  do  so  that  a 
taxi  paused  before  the  entrance.  A  minute  later  he  saw 
Jane  Maynard  descend  the  steps  and  cross  the  sidewalk. 


210  THE  DAY  OF  FAITH 

Yegg  Darby  ran  across  the  street.  "  'Scuse  me,  Miss 
Maynard,  but  I  gotta  talk  to  you,"  was  his  introductory 
remark. 

Jane  paused  and  looked  at  him.  The  lights  from  the 
building  that  she  had  just  left  fell  full  upon  his  face. 
On  the  steps  of  the  Foundation  stood  a  man;  from  his 
lips  came  the  sneering  words,  "  Squealer,  stool !  " 

She  turned  swiftly,  but  the  man  passed  into  the  house. 
She  %did  not  recognize  him,  but  his  words  helped  her  in 
recognition  of  the  one  who  accosted  her.  He  was  the 
man  who  had  burglariously  entered  the  Foundation  with 
Montreal  Sammy  and  had  been  knocked  down  by  that 
warrior.  His  treachery  was  evidently  known  to  the 
world,  and  not  even  imminent  recital  of  the  Hendricks 
creed  had  prevented  the  man  on  the  steps  from  voicing 
his  sentiments.  "You  wanted  me?'*  she  said. 

"  I  been  to  see  Montreal  Sammy,"  said  Darby. 

"Yes?" 

"  Ye-ah.  He  can  see  a  visitor  once  a  mont',  lady,  and 
knowin'  there  wasn't  any  one  likely  to  call  on  him,  I 
breezed  up  to-day.  I  had  a  talk  wit'  Montreal.  Y'see  " 
—  Darby  fought  hard  for  expression  of  sentiments  that 
were  chaotic,  that  he  didn't  comprehend  —  "  I  hadda  see 
him.  Y'understand?  " 

"  I  think  so,"  said  Jane  gently. 

"  T'anks,"  said  ~>arby.  "  Y'see,  me  and  Montreal  — • 
well,  lady,  I  threw  him  hard." 

"  And  you're  sorry.     Is  that  it?  "  asked  Jane. 

Darby  sneered.  "  Aw,  hell,  Miss  Maynard,  that  bunk 
is  all  right  for  the  left-footed  gang  that  come  and  graft 
on  you,  but  it  don't  mean  nothin'  to  me.  Sorry?  No. 
Not  exactly.  I  —  I  dunno." 

He  didn't  know;  Jane  understood.  He  was  sorry, 
ashamed  of  himself,  but  never  having  experienced  such  an 
f  emotion  before,  it  was  unrecognizable  to  him  now. 


THE  DAY  OF  FAITH  211 

"  Of  course.     You  saw  him.     To-day  ?  " 

"  I  had  quite  a  chin  wit'  him.  He's  lost  his  noive,  Mon- 
treal has,  ma'am.  He  says  to  me,  '  Tell  Miss  Maynard 
that  she  said  she'd  get  me  out;  I'm  waitin'  for  her  to 
make  good.'  That's  what  he  said,  ma'am." 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Jane  gravely.  Then,  as  Yegg 
Darby  shuffled  uneasily,  she  said,  "  Wouldn't  you  like  to 
go  inside?  No  one  will  harm  you  there." 

"  In  there  ?  "  Darby  sneered.  "  Lady,  I  ain't  no  lily- 
fingered  reformed  guy,  I  ain't.  I'm  a  crook,  I  am.  I'm 
a  stool  too  when  it  comes  to  that.  But  I  ain't  a  faker. 
I'll  travel  me  own  lane,  ma'am."  He  drew  a  long  breath. 
"Y'see,  ma'am,  I  got  it  straight  that  Montreal  wasn't 
sore  on  me.  Got  it  dead  straight.  Y'coulda  knocked  me 
for  a  goal  wit'  a  feather  when  I  heard  that.  So  I  goes 
up  to  see  him,  to  get  the  dope  on  it.  Well,  ma'am,  I 
expect  to  find  him  filled  wit'  religion  and  bunk,  but  he 
ain't.  He  says  religion  is  sucker  stuff,  and  he  comes 
right  out  and  says  that  you  are  the  biggest  come-on  of 
them  all.  Only,  he  says,  he  thinks  you're  goin'  to  put  it 
over,  and  he's  stringin'  a  bet  on  you  to  get  him  out.  Does 
he  copper  that  bet?  " 

Gravely  Jane  replied,  "  He  plays  it  straight,  place,  and 
show." 

Yegg  Darby  stepped  back;  he  stared  admiringly  at 
her.  "  Lady,  I  hand  it  to  you.  I  got  a  hunch  you'll 
make  good  on  the  play.  And  I  guess  that'll  be  all.  So 
long,  ma'am." 

"So  long,"  said  Jane.  She  was  attempting  no  indi- 
vidual reformations.  To  her  there  were  no  such  things 
as  individuals.  There  was  a  world,  and  each  person  in 
it  helped  make  it  up.  To  plead  with  Yegg  Darby  meant 
a  concession  that  he  was  not  perfect.  Did  she  believe  this 
creed  herself?  Once  again  she  asked  herself  the  question. 
Then  she  smiled  at  the  retreating  back  of  Yegg  Darby. 


THE  DAY  OF  FAITH 

He  was  a  person  with  a  certain  outlook  on  life;  that  was 
all.  He  harmed  no  one  but  himself,  and  one  who  harmed 
nobody  must  be  as  perfect  as  any  one  else.  But  it  was 
all  sort  of  a  jumble.  When  abstractions  became  con- 
crete, doubts  crept  in.  She  must  not  permit  them.  She 
must  think  of  what  lay  ahead  of  her;  she  must  think  of 
Darby's  message;  Montreal  Sammy  relied  on  her.  Well, 
she  would  keep  her  word.  She  would  get  him  out  of  prison 
—  somehow ! 

It  was  with  this  thought  that  she  entered  the  taxi, 
and  the  thought  was  still  with  her  when  she  alighted  before 
the  mansion  of  Michael  Anstell.  The  imprisoned  burg- 
lar relied  on  her;  she  would  not  fail  him.  And  then,  be- 
cause she  was  very  human,  she  forgot  Montreal  Sammy 
as  John  Anstell  ran  down  the  steps  of  his  father's  house, 
like  any  plebeian  lover,  to  meet  her. 

She,  too,  felt  plebeian;  she  wanted  to  kiss  him  there; 
but  she  smiled  at  her  own  unconventional  desire  and 
primly  permitted  him  to  pay  the  taximan. 

But  there  was  a  delicious  interlude  in  the  hall  when  a 
liveried  man's  back  was  turned,  and  she  was  able  to  for- 
get that  responsibilities  of  birth  and  position  weighed 
upon  her  natural  instincts.  They  kissed. 

Michael  Anstell  was  in  his  great  library  when  Jane, 
ushered  by  John,  entered  the  somber  room,  not  too  well 
lighted  by  candelabra  ravished  from  a  European  pal- 
ace. He  sat  at  the  head  of  a  long  oval  table,  and  he 
rose  and  <•  greeted  her  with  an  almost  feverish  cordiality. 
He  came  to  the  door  and  took  her  hand  in  his ;  as  though 
he  were  some  great  emperor  greeting  some  visiting  queen, 
he  turned  toward  the  group  of  men  about  the  table,  all 
of  whom  had  risen  and  were  staring  expectantly  at  her. 

He  had  manner,  had  Michael  Anstell,  although  until 
now  Jane  had  not  suspected  it.  But  power,  used  pur- 
posefully, marks  its  possessor.  Michael  Anstell  was  the 


THE  DAY  OF  FAITH 

most  purposeful  man  of  his  day  and  generation.  And 
the  most  powerful.  Because  he  was  in  absolute  control 
of  his  mind  and  heart,  he  possessed  manner,  for  manner 
is  self-control,  little  more. 

"  Gentlemen,"  he  said,  "  this  is  Miss  Jane  Maynard." 
His  words  were  simple;  Jane,  slightly  embarrassed  by 
the  impressiveness  of  his  manner,  had  feared  more.  But 
the  simple  words  seemed  more  effectual  than  an  elabora- 
tion of  them  would  have  been.  The  men  at  the  table 
bowed  almost  in  unison.  They  were  the  courtiers  to 
whom  the  visiting  queen  was  being  made  known.  And 
now,  as  her  eyes  became  better  accustomed  to  the  dim 
light,  she  began  to  recognize  faces  in  the  gathering. 

Heilbrun,  president  of  the  Thirty-first  National  Bank, 
the  foremost  banker  in  the  United  States,  had  visited  her 
father's  home  when  she  was  younger.  She  acknowledged 
his  introduction  with  a  smile.  Elbertson,  the  biggest 
textile  man  in  the  East,  she  had  never  met  before.  But 
she  had  seen  his  picture  many  times  in  the  public  prints. 
She  knew  quite  well  the  daughter,  now  married  to  an  Eng- 
lish nobleman,  of  Kynaston,  of  whom  it  was  said  that  the 
railroads  personally  owned  by  him  would  encircle  the 
globe.  He  controlled  other  thousands  of  miles.  Blod- 
gett  was  the  biggest  petroleum  man  in  America ;  she  liked 
his  scared-rabbit  air;  it  was  so  completely  in  contrast 
with  his  real  self,  which  was  that,  she'd  been  told,  of  an 
old-time  buccaneer.  And  there  was  also  Surmase.  He, 
outside  of  Anstell,  was  the  most  interesting  man  of  the 
group.  Like  Anstell's,  his  early  beginnings  were  en- 
shrouded in  mystery.  Like  Anstell,  beginning  with  noth- 
ing, he  had  achieved  a  colossal  fortune,  second  only  to 
the  immensity  of  Anstell's  wealth.  He  had  laid  the  foun- 
dations of  his  fortune  by  establishing  a  chain  of  food 
stores.  Later  he  had  acquired  control  of  huge  wheat 
tracts,  of  stock  yards,  of  cattle  ranges  in  North  and 


THE  DAY  OF  FAITH 

South  America.  The  world,  quite  literally,  ate  from  the 
hand  of  William  Surmase. 

They  were  names  to  stagger  one,  the  names  of  this 
half  dozen,  —  six  of  them,  each,  besides  his  pet  interest, 
heavily  involved  in  scores,  hundreds,  of  other  industries, 
of  trust  companies,  cf  banks.  She  sat  down,  a  bit  be- 
wildered. 

Anstell  tapped  on  the  table.  There  was  instant  si- 
lence. Jane  felt  the  eyes  of  the  others  upon  her ;  over  the 
shoulder  of  Blodgett  she  met  the  glance  of  John;  he 
smiled  at  her ;  and  suddenly  she  became  cool,  lost  the  flus- 
tered feeling  that  had  been  with  her. 

"  Miss  Maynard,  we  are  busy  men  —  all  of  us.  You 
are  a  busy  woman.  We  won't  waste  time.  Will  you 
please  state,  as  briefly  as  possible,  the  nature  of  the  work 
on  which  you  are  at  present  engaged?  " 

His  matter-of-fact  tones  robbed  the  situation  of  pos- 
sible embarrassment  to  Jane.  As  calmly  and  incisively 
as  Michael  Anstell  spoke,  she  replied,  "  To  spread,  to 
those  who  wish  to  hear  it,  the  doctrine  of  Bland  Hen- 
dricks,"  she  told  them. 

"  And  that  doctrine,"  said  Anstell,  "  consists  simply 
of  the  phrase,  *  My  neighbor  is  perfect.* '  He  looked 
from  man  to  man  of  the  gathering.  "  Gentlemen,"  he 
said  impressively,  "I'm  not  going  to  review  recent  his- 
tory. You  know  the  Great  War,  its  purposes  and  its 
outcome.  You  know  that  we  were  told,  and  some  of  us 
were  foolish  enough  to  believe,  that  it  was  the  war  to 
end  war.  We  know  that  there  are  wars  going  on  this 
very  moment  in  every  corner  of  the  globe.  We  know  that 
not  merely  are  governments  at  war  with  other  govern- 
ments, but  peoples  are  at  war  with  governments  of  their 
own  choice,  their  own  making.  We  know  that  crime  is 
with  us  as  it  never  was  before;  that  religious  prejudice 
is  lifting  its  ugly  head,  that  race  hatred  snarls  from 


THE  DAY  OF  FAITH  215 

every  nook  and  cranny  of  the  earth.     Gentlemen,  why? 

"  I  ask  you  that.  A  world  is  asking  itself  that  ques- 
tion. And  the  answer  is  simple:  because  hate  rules  the 
world.  Another  question  arises :  Why  does  hate  rule  the 
world?  Because,  gentlemen,  hate  is  instilled  in  the  bosom 
of  every  living  human  almost  from  infancy.  Babes  draw 
it  in  with  their  mothers'  milk.  Hate!  The  thing  that 
makes  wars,  pestilences,  famines,  revolutions. 

"  We  have  great  religions  established  on  the  founda- 
tions of  love.  But  the  edifices  have  grown  so  tall  that 
men  have  forgotten  the  foundations.  Men  come  along 
with  new  creeds.  But  they  are  complex,  bewildering,  and 
in  the  rules  laid  down  in  them  one  loses  sight  of  the  sim- 
ple faith  that  underlies  them  all.  Words  supersede 
deeds;  doctrinaires  usurp  the  place  of  ministers  of  God; 
the  word  of  man  crowds  out  the  word  of  Christ. 

"  Gentlemen,  I  am  not  a  religious  man,  as  the  term  is 
usually  understood.  I  haven't  set  foot  in  a  church  in 
nearly  fifty  years.  I  never  expect  to  set  foot  in  one.  For 
churches  are  not  the  houses  of  God ;  they  are  the  houses 
of  man. 

"  We  have  seen,  recently,  how  the  Christian  churches, 
of  certain  similar  denominations,  tried  to  get  together. 
They  failed.  It  doesn't  matter  why  they  failed ;  it  is  suf- 
ficient that  they  did.  And  even  if  they  had  got  together, 
immense  congregations,  belonging  to  quite  different  faiths, 
would  have  been  outside  the  united  fold. 

"  But  if,  gentlemen,  the  Jew,  the  Catholic,  the  Bap- 
tist, the  Buddhist,  the  Mohammedan,  the  Confucianist  — 
if  all  these  were  given  something  in  addition  to  what  they 
already  have,  something  without  rules,  without  man-made 
doctrine,  something  taught  already  in  their  own  religions 
—  could  they  quarrel  with  it?  Is  it  not  possible  that 
faith  may  overcome  the  prejudices  of  creed? 

"  I  say  that  it  is  !  " 


216  THE  DAY  OF  FAITH 

His  voice,  vigorous  despite  his  years,  seemed  to  boom 
the  word.  The  sunken  eyes  gleamed  with  fervor.  "  Gen- 
tlemen, the  world  can't  go  on  as  it  has  been  doing.  Civ- 
ilization is  being  wrecked,  and  only  because  Christianity 
is  no  longer  Christian,  because  Jewry  is  no  longer  Jewish, 
because  the  other  religions  have  become  so  imbedded  in 
silly  formula  that  one  cannot  find  the  germ  of  truth  once 
contained  therein. 

"  The  war  has  not  freed  the  world ;  it  has  enslaved  it. 
We  are  more  militaristic  than  ever  before.  So  is  Eng- 
land, so  is  France,  so  is  Japan.  We  fought  for  freedom, 
and  what  have  we?  We  have  a  rule  of  suspicion,  of  fear, 
of  distrust  of  our  neighbor,  his  ethics,  his  intentions,  his 
desires. 

"  Bigots  are  enthroned.  The  day  of  the  spy  is  upon 
us.  And  the  spy  does  not  make  for  goodness ;  he  makes 
for  hatred,  distrust,  hidden  vice.  Stupidity  reigns.  And 
where  we  have  stupidity  we  have  viciousness.  Each  of 
us  says  to  himself  that  he  alone  is  perfect,  that  his  neigh- 
bor is  vile.  The  city  man  hates  the  farmer;  the  farmer 
hates  the  city  man.  The  churchgoer  thinks  that  the  man 
outside  the  congregation  is  damned  eternally;  the  atheist 
thinks  the  religious  man  is  an  idiot.  We  have  before  us, 
threatening  us  with  a  modern  Inquisition,  a  wave  of  dis- 
honest reformation,  a  wave  of  governmental  control  of 
our  private  lives  in  the  interest  of  what  bigots  think  is 
good  for  us. 

"  And  with  what  shall  a  world  combat  this  wave?  With 
only  one  thing:  a  complete  wiping  out  of  the  differences 
of  creed,  petty  and  childish  when  they  are  not  rankly 
superstitious,  that  threaten  to  engulf  us  in  internecine 
quarrel. 

"  How?  By  the  substitution  of  a  universal  faith  in 
man.  We  have  worshiped  gods  for  thousands  of  years. 
And  each  god  has  been  subtly  changed  by  each  genera- 


THE  DAY  OF  FAITH  217 

tion.  Yesterday  our  god  frowned  at  one  thing;  to-day 
he  frowns  at  another;  to-morrow  yet  something  else  will 
arouse  his  wrath.  And  never  have  the  earthly  sponsors 
of  these  gods  told  us  to  worship  man. 

"  Miss  Maynard  does  not  tell  us  to  do  that.  But  she 
tells  us  to  see  him  as  perfect.  Herein  her  creed  differs 
from  all  others.  All  others  have  told  us  to  strive  for 
perfection  in  ourselves.  We  have  striven  and,  thinking 
that  we  have  achieved,  we  condemn  our  neighbor  who  does 
not  see  eye  to  eye  with  us.  But  if  we  forget  ourselves, 
forget  our  greeds,  our  hatreds,  our  selves,  and  think  only 
of  our  neighbor,  what  shall  we  have?  " 

"  The  millennium,"  said  Surmase  dryly. 

"Exactly,"  said  Anstell.  "And  I'll  subscribe  fifty 
millions  to  bring  the  millennium  here." 

"  Can  it  be  bought  ?  "  demanded  Blodgett. 

"  It  can,"  said  Michael  Anstell. 

"  Then  I'm  for  it,"  said  Blodgett. 

Dazed,  dreamily,  Jane  listened  to  them  pledge  their 
millions  for  a  cause  as  yet  not  outlined.  It  was  the  sec- 
ond victory,  although  she  had  not  seen  it  yet,  in  that 
conquest  of  the  world  that  had  begun  when  the  newspapers 
had  used  the  word  "  miracle." 


CHAPTER  XXII 

JANE  was  frankly  bewildered  by  what  followed.  There 
was  talk  of  "  campaigns,"  of  committees,  of  budgets,  of 
subscription  lists.  The  fact  that  they  were  seriously  con- 
sidering Michael  Anstell's  amazing  proposition  was  in 
itself  bewildering.  These  were  hard-headed  men,  of  great 
affairs.  That  they  should  yield  to  any  religious  emo- 
tionalism was  beyond  comprehension.  For  she  did  not 
understand  the  motives  actuating  them.  Michael  An- 
stell  did,  however,  and  cunningly  he  played  upon  their 
fears. 

For  he  had  not  exaggerated  when  he  had  described  the 
world's  condition.  India,  Ireland,  and  Egypt  seethed 
with  revolt  against  the  British  rule.  Armed  troops  con- 
fronted each  other  in  Poland.  Bolshevist  Russia  still 
hurled  defiance  at  the  world. 

These  were  bad  enough;  but  worse  was  in  the  world. 
Not  a  day  passed  but  another  conflict  between  capital 
and  labor  was  shrieked  from  the  front  pages  of  the  press. 
There  had  been  a  wave  of  crime  unparalleled  in  American 
history.  In  one  year,  just  closed,  there  had  been  eighteen 
thousand  fires  listed  as  suspicious.  A  leading  newspaper 
asked  editorially  if  we  had  become  a  nation  of  incendiar- 
ists.  Armed  blacks  confronted  armed  whites  in  a  Southern 
city.  The  negro  press  adopted  a  defiant  tone.  Domestic 
scandal  raged  as  never  in  our  history.  The  sickening 
details  of  divorce  charges  and  countercharges  stank 
from  the  court  rooms.  A  whole  nation  jeered  at  a  Fed- 
eral law,  and  not  to  have  violated  it  in  some  fashion  ren- 
dered one  liable  to  the  charge  of  being  a  mollycoddle. 


THE  DAY  OF  FAITH 

A  whole  world  has  been  lifted  to  the  supreme  heights 
of  sacrifice  and  devotion  during  the  Bloody  Years.  In 
its  reaction  it  seemed  to  have  sunk  to  depths  of  infamy 
undreamed  of  before. 

The  world  snarled.  Like  angry  little  boys,  men  seemed, 
but  the  little  boys  had  the  adult's  strength,  and  the  cun- 
ning of  demons  had  armed  them.  And  these  men  to  whom 
Michael  Anstell  talked  knew  these  things.  And  feared 
them.  They  wanted  peace.  Not  merely  peace  between 
nations,  but  peace  between  political  parties,  peace  be- 
tween the  various  orders  of  society,  peace  between  man 
and  man.  Not  one  of  them  but  could  glimpse  the  pros- 
pect unfolded  vaguely  by  the  words  of  Michael  Anstell. 

There  is  a  belief  in  the  world  that  millionaires,  men 
of  great  deeds  in  the  domains  of  finance,  differ  in  nature 
from  their  humbler  fellows.  Sycophants  glorify  them, 
prating  of  their  vivid  and  colorful  imaginations,  the 
great  dreams  that  they  dream.  Anarchists  sneer  at  them, 
condemning  the  greed  which,  they  claim,  is  their  only  ani- 
mating .motive. 

Both  are  wrong.  The  millionaire  differs  from  his  less 
successful  brother  only  in  the  possession  of  an  acquisitive 
knack.  It  is  this  that  piles  up  his  fortune,  not  his  great 
imagination,  not  his  tremendous  greed.  For  he  is  no 
more  greedy  than  his  brother  in  poverty.  Greed  is  a 
universal  human  trait.  We  honor  unselfishness  because 
it  is  rare. 

The  millionaire,  nine  times  out  of  ten,  began  in  pov- 
erty. He  must  have  had  the  same  qualities  when  poor  as 
when  rich.  To  lie,  to  cheat,  to  steal,  to  hate,  —  these 
are  the  universal  qualities,  belonging  to  rich  and  poor, 
to  the  whole  and  the  halt. 

But  with  great  possessions  alwaj^s  comes  conservatism. 
These  men  who  sat  with  Michael  Anstell  had  been  daring, 
all  of  them,  in  their  youth.  They  were  so  no  longer. 


220  THE  DAY  OF  FAITH 

They  wanted  to  keep  what  they  held.  And  the  world's 
unrest  made  them  fear  their  ability  to  hold  what  they 
had. 

Yet  it  was  not  through  conscious  greed  that  they  acqui- 
esced in  the  plan,  the  grandiose  plan,  of  Michael  An- 
stell.  They  were  conservative.  But  they  believed  that 
only  in  conservatism  was  there  righteousness.  Long  pos- 
session of  their  wealth  had  made  them  used  to  it ;  a  world 
in  which  they  should  not  have  wealth  would  be  an  un- 
believable world.  Who  would  provide  work  for  those  who 
labored  unless  the  rich  did  so? 

The  State?  Absurd.  The  State  could  not  run  its 
own  essential  business,  much  less  those  industries  which 
depended  on  man's  greed  for  their  efficiency. 

Only  by  themselves,  or  by  men  like  them,  could  the 
world  proceed  in  that  order  which  is  so  dear  to  him  who 
Lath.  They  supported  great  charities ;  they  were  always 
in  the  forefront  of  works  done  for  the  public  weal.  And, 
despite  the  cries  of  the  agitators,  their  motives  were  not 
always  venal. 

They  believed  in  goodness;  they  liked  goodness.  That 
they  had  acquired  their  colossal  fortunes  by  methods  that 
could  stand  no  ethical  test  was  something  that  never  both- 
ered them.  For,  like  all  successful  men,  whether  the  suc- 
cess be  gained  in  war,  in  politics,  in  the  arts,  in  science, 
or  in  finance,  they  believed  that  there  was  something  in 
their  fiber  that  differentiated  them  from  the  common  herd, 
that  their  success  had  been  intended.  Self -justification 
is  the  commonest  of  vices. 

So,  with  a  world  gone  mad,  it  is  not  to  be  wondered 
at  that  when  one  so  great,  so  colossal,  as  Michael  Anstell 
told  them  that  only  by  a  world-wide  religion  could  order 
be  restored,  they  cheerfully  agreed  with  him  and  backed 
their  acquiescence  with  their  money.  For  they  consid- 
ered themselves  stewards  of  the  public  weal.  Religion  was 


THE  DAY  OF  FAITH 

good  for  people;  they  believed  in  it;  it  was  the  correct 
and  proper  thing  for  men  of  their  position  to  do.  That 
Anstell  proposed  spending  fabulous  amounts  on  the  pro- 
mulgation of  the  new  creed  made  no  difference.  If  a 
thing  was  worth  while,  it  should  be  well  worth  while. 
Michael  Anstell  had  carefully  chosen  his  men. 

It  was  late  when  Jane  arrived  at  the  Foundation,  and 
she  was  glad  that  the  building  was  deserted  save  for  the 
colored  cook,  whose  snores  seemed  to  shake  the  building. 
Because  she  was  tired  she  reluctantly  dismissed  John  at 
the  door. 

For  the  first  time  since  she  had  come  down  to  Carey 
Street  she  regretted  the  lack  of  a  personal  maid.  For 
she  was  wearied,  so  wearied  that  for  half  an  hour  she  made 
no  effort  to  remove  her  clothing,  but  lay  fully  dressed 
upon  her  bed. 

She  felt  strangely  apprehensive.  What  sort  of  forces 
had  she  set  in  motion?  What  was  it  that  Surmase  had 
said?  She  remembered.  He  had  called  her  the  modern 
Joan  of  Arc,  had  said  that  she  too  had  heard  voices, 
voices  which  would  direct  a  world  to  freedom  from  its 
slavery. 

Suddenly,  for  the  moment,  she  regretted  the  career  into 
which  she  had  been  plunged,  seemingly  by  no  volition  of 
her  own.  For  she  was  normal.  She  liked  golf,  tennis, 
riding,  motoring,  swimming,  dancing;  even  an  occasional 
mild  flirtation  had  not  been  banned  before  she  had  fallen 
in  love  with  John  Anstell. 

There  was  nothing  abnormal  about  her.  She  was  con- 
scious of  her  own  sanity,  despite  those  clouded  months 
when  nervous  exhaustion  had  conquered  her.  But  that 
period  was  past.  She  was  normal. 

She  was  just  a  young,  healthy  girl,  who  loved  life. 

Surmase  was  silly.  So  were  the  rest  of  them.  She'd 
disclaimed  their  praise.  What  on  earth  had  she  done? 


222  THE  DAY  OF  FAITH 

Nothing  save  endeavor  to  spread,  ever  so  slightly,  the 
doctrine  of  Bland  Hendricks.  And  now,  instead  of  being 
a  seven  days*  wonder  for  the  city  of  New  York  to  laugh 
at,  she  would  be  a  world  figure  —  she  didn't  think  she 
liked  the  idea. 

If  she'd  written  a  great  play,  she'd  not  shrink  from 
glory.  If  she'd  done  heroic  deeds  in  Flanders,  she'd  not 
shirk  public  acclaim.  But  to  face  publicity,  world-wide 
publicity,  because  she  simply  had  an  ethical  idea  to  which 
she  was  trying  to  adapt  her  life 

The  thing  was  too  terrific,  too  tremendous.  And 
Michael  Anstell  was  so  certain.  That  certainty  appalled 
her.  To  provide  the  world  with  ethics  as  one  provided 
it  with  groceries 

She  must  preserve  her  sense  of  proportion.  The  kindly 
flattery  of  the  Surmases  must  not  unbalance  her.  To 
be  overly  religious  is  to  be  unbalanced.  Suddenly  she 
laughed.  Michael  Anstell  and  the  others  were  absurd. 
Their  grandiose  idea  would  be  a  colossal  joke. 

And  then  she  wondered. 

For  what  had  inflamed  a  world  to  righteous  wrath  in 
the  Bloody  Years  just  past?  Not  greed,  not  hate,  but 
a  passionate  desire  for  justice,  for  righteousness  in  the 
world.  It  didn't  matter  that  peoples  had  been  deceived 
by  governments,  that  profiteers  had  fattened  while  heroes 
died.  The  great  fact  was  that  the  world  flamed  for  de- 
cency. 

If  men  had  marched  to  battle  for  the  right,  would  they 
disdain  a  simple  act  of  faith?  Men  had  died  for  gods,  for 
creeds,  for  lands,  for  flags,  for  ideals.  Would  they  not 
live  for  each  other?  It  was  possible.  Perhaps  it  had 
never  been  possible  before,  but  to-day,  in  the  war-worn 
world,  men  looked  for  something  else,  something  better. 
The  Bloody  Years  had  chastened  them.  Even  though 
now,  in  fierce  reaction  from  war  and  war's  discipline,  a 


THE  DAY  OF  FAITH 

world  acted  like  untutored  savages,  it  was  only  temporary 
reaction.  Michael  Anstell's  method  was  right. 

Yet,  as  she  undressed  and  fell  into  exhausted  sleep,  she 
heard,  ringing  faintly  through  her  brain,  the  words  of 
Tom  Barnett.  He  had  said  that  money  killed  all  faith 
and  left  only  creed.  She  would  convince  him  otherwise. 

The  colored  woman  awoke  her,  bringing  coffee  and 
fruit.  She  placed  the  tray  on  a  table  by  Jane's  bed.  For 
her  mistress  she  had  begun  to  acquire  an  affection  which 
reconciled  her  to  living  in  what  she  still  termed  a  "  crazy 
house."  She  beamed  now  upon  the  sleepy  girl. 

"  Honey,"  she  said,  "  you  sure  better  look  your  pretti- 
est this  mawnin'." 

"Why?  "asked  Jane. 

"  Movies,"  said  the  colored  woman  unctuously. 
*'  Yas'm,  movies." 

Jane  stared  at  her,  bewildered.  The  woman  explained. 
Moving-picture  operators,  as  well  as  reporters,  were 
downstairs.  Until  now,  for  some  reason  known  only  to 
the  news-film  companies  themselves,  she  had  not  been 
thought  worthy  of  cinema  immortalization.  But  that  bit 
of  privacy  was  gone  with  the  others  now. 

She  understood  when  she  got  downstairs.  Michael 
Anstell  was  not  one  to  let  time  be  wasted.  Not  merely 
had  he  informed  his  own  newspapers  of  his  great  plan, 
but  the  news  associations,  the  film  companies,  these  also 
had  been  told.  And  their  representatives  were  here  this 
morning. 

But  there  was  little  for  her  to  tell  them.  They  seemed 
to  know  more  than  she  had  learned  last  night.  Michael 
Anstell  believed  that  the  world  was  ready  for  a  new  order 
of  things.  He  hoped  that  the  governments  of  the  world 
would  designate,  officially,  a  day  on  which  the  peoples  of 
the  world  would  utter  the  creed  of  the  Hendricks  Foun- 
dation. 


THE  DAY  OF  FAITH 

"  Great  stuff,"  said  one  young  reporter.  "  Got  any- 
thing to  say,  Miss  Maynard  ?  Anything  new  ?  " 

Jane  found  that  she  hadn't.  She  felt  some  little  pique 
because  Michael  Anstell  seemed  to  have  said  everything 
that  was  to  be  said.  But  she  put  it  from  her.  This 
was  no  private  matter;  it  was  something  that  involved 
the  happiness,  the  well-being  of  the  world.  And  so  she 
posed  for  the  cameras  and  chatted  gayly  with  the  re- 
porters, who  no  longer  eyed  her  as  though  she  were  some 
curiously  afflicted  being.  For  had  not  Michael  Anstell, 
and  Surmase,  and  the  others  indorsed  her?  Had  not 
wealth  approved  of  her?  Overnight,  though  Jane  did  not 
know  it,  the  opinion  of  the  world  would  change.  If 
money  approved  her  ideas,  then  —  there  must  be  some- 
thing in  those  ideas. 

For  millionaires  do  not  spend  money  on  chimeras. 
The  veriest  cub  reporters  knew  immediately  that  money, 
oceans  of  money,  were  to  be  poured  out,  must  be  poured 
out,  in  the  backing  of  Jane's  creed.  One  might  jeer  at 
one  wealthy,  cultured  girl  who  preached  a  millennium. 
But  one  listened  respectfully  when  millions  gravely  spoke. 
She  could  sense  the  feeling  of  respect,  although  she  had 
not  analyzed  it  yet. 

Alone,  finally,  conscious  that  this  had  been  her  first 
real  interview,  and  wondering  how  what  she  had  said 
would  appear  when  put  into  type,  she  left  the  Founda- 
tion to  attend  a  needed  conference  with  her  dressmaker. 

Later  she  lunched  with  John.  She  told  him  of  her 
morning's  interview. 

"  Until  to-day,"  she  said,  "  I've  not  said  anything  about 
the  Hendricks  idea.  But  this  morning  I  —  gabbled, 
John.  Instead  of  letting  the  idea  speak  for  itself,  I 
spoke  for  it." 

He  smiled.  "  It  can  ask  no  more  potent  champion," 
he  assured  her. 


THE  DAY  OF  FAITH  225 

Her  brows  knitted.  "  That's  exactly  it.  Of  course  I 
know  that  it's  all  wonderful,  but  —  some  one  spoke  to 
me  yesterday  about  the  danger  of  letting  money  control 
religion 

"  Of  course,"  she  added  hastily,  "  I  know  that  your 
father's  intentions  are  —  well,  noble.  That's  all  I  can 
call  them.  But  —  it  had  me  worried  a  bit.  And  I'm 
worried  again.  Why  should  any  one  have  to  speak  for, 
or  advertise  a  truth?  Isn't  the  truth  itself  sufficient?  " 

John  laughed.  "  Of  course  it  is.  But  if  people  don't 
know  that  the  truth  exists  —  see?  " 

She  smiled  uncertainly.     "  Oh,  I'm  silly.     But " 

"What's  in  it  for  father?  Is  that  the  idea?"  he 
asked. 

She  shrugged  distastefully.    "  John !  " 

"  Don't  be  afraid  of  hurting  my  feelings,"  he  smiled. 
"  Believe  me,  I  asked  myself  the  question  a  good  many 
times  last  night.  It's  a  pretty  fierce  thing,  to  doubt  your 
father,  but  —  I  have.  But  I've  studied  it  from  every 
angle.  What's  in  it  for  father?  Moreover,  we  have  to 
see  every  one  as  perfect,  even  that  scoundrelly  old  dad 
of  mine,  eh  ?  " 

"  I  do,"  she  protested. 

He  laughed.  "  Well,  I  don't.  I  admire  him,  and  I 
love  him,  I  suppose.  I  don't  know  much  about  filial  af- 
fection, though.  I've  never  had  much  chance  to  practice 

it.  But  this  time He's  putting  up  fifty  millions. 

I  can't  get  back  of  that." 

And  now  his  own  doubts  banished  hers.  "  You  mustn't 
be  so  cynical,  so  —  untrusting." 

"  I'll  try  not  to  be,"  he  grinned.  "  Anyway,  it's  a 
great  scheme." 

"  Scheme?  "  she  echoed.     She  felt  vaguely  hurt. 

"  Well,  idea,  plan,  whatever  you  want  to  call  it,"  he 
amended. 


226  THE  DAY  OF  FAITH 

"  I  call  it  a  hope,"  she  told  him. 

"  Call  it  what  you  will,"  he  grinned.  "  At  the  moment 
the  salvation  of  the  world  doesn't  concern  me  at  all.  I'm 
with  a  pretty  girl  whom  I  love  and  who,  I  think,  loves  me, 
and  the  world  can  go  hang.'* 

"  You  shouldn't  talk  that  way,"  she  protested. 

He  eyed  her  seriously.  "  Listen  to  me,  Jane,"  he  said. 
"  You  and  dad  have  embarked  upon  a  big  project.  I'll 
concede  it.  I'm  for  it.  I  think  that  it  will  do  a  lot  of 
good.  It  may  establish  more  kindliness,  more  generosity, 
in  the  world.  But,  meantime,  you  don't  have  to  make  an 
early  Christian  martyr  of  yourself.  You  don't  even  have 
to  be  a  modern  missionary.  Don't  talk  shop  or  think 
it  all  the  time,  Jane." 

She  laughed  merrily.  "  Shop?  What  a  crude  person 
you  are,  John  Anstell." 

"I'll  say  I  am,  old  thing,"  he  told  her.  "I'm  so 
darned  crude  that  I'm  thinking  a  lot  more  of  my  happi- 
ness than  of  the  world's.  How  about  yourself?  " 

He  was  good  to  look  at,  and  the  merriment  in  his  eyes 
challenged  her.  "  Me  too,"  she  told  him  with  a  smile. 
And  the  hovering  waiter  sneered  contemptuously.  They 
were  boobs.  Wait  till  they  had  seven  children  and  they'd 
regret  this  mushy  stuff.  He  knew.  He'd  tell  the  world 
he  knew. 

But  he  didn't  tell  the  world,  and  so,  unconscious  of 
the  progeny  that  he  had  wished  upon  them,  John  and 
Jane  continued  luncheon  and  love-making. 

Afterward  they  separated  because  John  had  to  see  his 
father  and  Jane  must  go  to  the  dressmaker  again.  Here 
she  was  detained  two  hours  and  arrived  at  the  Foundation 
late  in  the  afternoon. 

There,  in  the  hall,  stood  Tom  Barnett.  His  excite- 
ment was  patent.  He  seized  her  right  hand  in  both  of 


THE  DAY  OF  FAITH  227 

his.     "  Virtue,"  he  cried,  "  is  not  its  only  reward,  Miss 
Maynard." 

She  felt  strangely  glad  to  see  him,  considering  that 
her  thoughts  had  been  filled  the  last  few  hours  exclu- 
sively with  another  man.  She  permitted  her  hand  to  re- 
main in  his  for  a  moment.  Then,  withdrawing  it,  she 
asked,  "  When  did  you  make  that  momentous  discovery, 
Mr.  Barnett?" 

He  drew  out  his  watch  and  gravely  consulted  it.  "  One 
hour  and  eleven  minutes  and  sixteen  seconds  ago,  Miss 
Maynard." 

"  I  love  accuracy,"  she  told  him.  She  wondered  that 
this  young  man,  toward  whom  she  had  felt  antagonistic 
yesterday,  could  arouse  her  lighter  side  as  John  Anstell 
did  not  seem  to  do.  Perhaps,  though,  she  was  so  much 
in  love  with  John  that  she  could  think  only  emotionally 
when  with  him. 

"  So  do  I,"  he  said.     "  Always  have.     If  I  hadn't  - 
well,  suppose  I'd  written  the  sort  of  story  that  Michael 
Anstell  wanted  run  in  the  Blade?     Where'd  I  be?    Work- 
ing for  one  hundred  and  ten  dollars  a  week.     But  I'm 
accurate.     I  wrote  the  truth.     What  am  I  doing  now?  " 

"  Now,  that's  a  question,  isn't  it?  "  laughed  Jane. 
"  What  are  you  doing  now?  " 

"  Well,  besides  talking  to  the  prettiest  girl  in  the  great 
and  glorious  Borough  of  Manhattan " 

"  Oh,  come  now,"  said  Jane  gravely.  "  Are  you  quite 
fair  to  me?  " 

"  I  apologize,"  said  Barnett.  "  The  prettiest  girl  in 
the  whole  darned  city  and  State  of  New  York  —  besides 
talking  to  that  girl,  I  am  also  the  same  girl's  publicity 
man,  at  a  salary  —  oh,  I  love  this  accuracy  —  of  ex- 
actly four  hundred  dollars  a  week.  Say,  Miss  Maynard, 
I  stung  the  old  burglar  for  twice  what  I'd  dreamed  of 


228  THE  DAY  OF  FAITH 

getting.  Do  you  think  I  could  have  got  more  from 
him?  " 

"  What  old  burglar?  "  she  demanded. 

"  Michael  Anstell,"  he  replied. 

"  You  are  publicity  man  for " 

"  Chief  press  agent  for  the  Day  of  Faith !  Bring  on 
your  autos-da-fe,  your  martyrdoms.  Miss  Maynard,  I've 
got  religion,  I  have !  " 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

GRAVELY  she  walked  into  the  assembly  hall.  She  rang 
a  bell  and  as  on  yesterday  she  poured  the  tea  which  the 
colored  woman  served.  All  this  without  a  word.  But 
finally  she  leaned  back  in  her  chair.  "  So  you've  —  got 
religion,  Mr.  Barnett?" 

"  Or  religion's  got  me,  Miss  Maynard,"  he  chuckled. 

"  Four  hundred  dollars  a  week.  What  for? "  she 
asked. 

"  To  put  you  over  —  right !  Miss  Maynard,  I'm  so 
darned  excited " 

"  I  suppose  it  is  a  lot  of  money,"  she  said. 

He  shook  his  head.  "  Darn  the  money !  It's  the  idea. 
It's  too  big  -  -  " 

"  And  how  do  you  happen  to  be  selected,  Mr.  Bar- 
nett? "  she  interrupted. 

He  grinned.  The  smile  robbed  his  face  completely  of 
that  sardonic  expression  that  made  it  somewhat  unpleas- 
ant to  the  casual  observer. 

"  My  great  abilities,  Miss  Maynard.  Mr.  Anstell  sent 
for  me  to-day.  I  went.  He  told  me  of  his  conversion." 
He  winked.  "  He  told  me  —  oh,  about  your  meeting  last 
night  —  everything.  Asked  me  what  I'd  charge  to  be 
chief  of  publicity.  Well,  I'm  working  on  a  play,  but  — 
I  said  four  hundred  a  week.  He  took  me  up.  So  —  here 
I  am." 

She  eyed  him  steadily.  "  Do  you  think  it  quite  honest 
to  promise  to  perform  work  in  which  you  do  not  be- 
lieve? " 


230  THE  DAY  OF  FAITH 

"  Who  said  that  I  didn't  believe  in  it?  "  he  countered, 

"  Do  you?  "  she  asked. 

He  met  her  gaze  fairly.  "  Miss  Maynard,  when  I  think 
of  Michael  Anstell  being  converted  to  any  religion  — 
that  old  wolf  —  I  have  to  laugh.  But  in  what  you  preach 

—  I  know  what  it  did  for  me,"  he  finished  simply. 
"  You  believe  in  it  —  the  creed?  "  she  persisted. 
"  I'm  trying  to,"  he  said.     He  colored  faintly. 

"  Then  why  sneer  at  Mr.  Anstell?  Whose  money  you 
are  ready  to  accept." 

"  I'm  not  sneering ;  I'm  laughing,"  he  protested. 

"  Why  laugh  at  him  ?     Why  would  he  spend  his  money 

—  a  fortune  —  on  something  in  which  he  didn't  believe?  " 
she  asked. 

He  shrugged.  "  Miss  Maynard,  I  thought  that  you  — 
might  be  pleased  to  know  that  my  talents  are  at  your 
disposal." 

"  I  would  be,"  she  retorted,  "  if  I  were  sure  that  they 
were  genuinely  engaged." 

"  I  never  cheat  my  employer,"  he  told  her  dryly. 

"  But  yesterday  you  condemned  me  because  I  was  will- 
ing to  let  Mr.  Anstell  back  my  idea  —  the  Hendricks 
idea,"  she  corrected  herself. 

"  That  was  yesterday,  Miss  Maynard."  He  hesitated 
a  moment,  then  went  on,  "  It's  not  the  four  hundred  dol- 
lars a  week,  Miss  Maynard.  I  —  I  meant  what  I  told 
you  yesterday.  But  —  I  did  a  lot  of  thinking  last  night. 
I  did  some  more  quick  thinking  when  Anstell  offered  me 
the  position.  And  —  why  shouldn't  I  take  it  ?  And  why 
shouldn't  Anstell  back  your  idea?  If  there  were  any  pos- 
sible way  in  which  he  could  make  use  of  it You 

see,  you  have  no  creed,  no  dogma,  no  formula.  I  was 
darned  unjust  to  the  old  burglar,  Miss  Maynard." 

"  You  were?  You  are  now,  aren't  you?  You  still 
(don't  believe  in  his  good  faith,  do  you?  You  are  laugh- 


THE  DAY  OF  FAITH  231 

ing  at  the  idea  of  his  wishing  to  do  something  decent, 
aren't  you?  " 

"  Of  course  I  am ;  I  haven't  entirely  lost  my  sense  of 
humor,"  he  grinned.  "  But  yesterday  I  thought  that  he 
could  —  harm  you  —  in  some  way.  But  to-day  I  don't 
see  how  he  possibly  could.  I  thought  that  your  idea 
might  be  injured  in  some  way.  To-day  I  don't  see  how. 
You  wonder  why,  then,  I  laugh  at  him.  Because,  Miss 
Maynard,  I  know  why  Michael  Anstell  is  doing  this.  Be- 
cause he  believes  that  his  neighbor  is  perfect?  Certainly 
not.  But  because  he  believes  that  it  is  easy  to  hoodwink 
God.  And  history.  He  has  a  name  that  has  been  exe- 
crated for  a  generation,  Miss  Maynard,  a  name  that  i& 
cursed  wherever  men  gather,  because  of  his  greed,  his 
selfishness.  Michael  Anstell  knows  these  things.  In  his 
old  age  a  certain  vanity  has  come  to  him.  He  wants  the 
applause  of  the  mob  that  he  has  scorned,  trampled  upon. 
That's  why  I  smile  at  the  idea  of  his  conversion.  The 
wolf  is  never  tamed." 

She  stared  at  him,  pondering.  Cynical,  distrustful  of 
the  motives  of  others,  he  was.  Yet  he  admitted  that  he 
could  find  no  reason  for  doubting  Michael  Anstell's  sin- 
cerity, and  if  he  could  find  none  why  should  she  bother 
with  vague  and  silly  doubts? 

"  And  you  will  help  him?  "  she  asked. 

"  Not  him.  The  idea.  Your  idea.  If  Michael  An- 
stell can  ride  to  a  temporary  glory  on  a  great  idea,  shall 
I  scorn  the  idea?  The  idea,  Miss  Maynard,  is  a  lot  big- 
ber  than  Michael  Anstell.  Besides,'*  and  now  his  grin  was 
almost  wistful.  "  I'll  have  a  chance  to  become  acquainted 
with  you." 

This  was  bold,  bolder  even  than  his  previous  imperti- 
nences. Yet,  somehow,  she  did  not  resent  it.  She  had 
the  rare  gift  of  recognizing  honesty.  She  knew  that,  what- 


THE  DAY  OF  FAITH 

ever  Tom  Barnett  might  be,  or  might  hare  been,  he  was 
honest.  And  so  she  replied: 

"  That  is  a  most  flattering  remark,  Mr.  Barnett,  and 
I  thank  you." 

She  was  engaged  to  another  man,  a  man  who  would 
inherit  fabulous  millions,  billions,  even,  unless  rumor  ex- 
aggerated too  greatly.  Barnett  was  an  ex-newspaper 
man,  a  press  agent,  now,  with  a  salary  that  would  not 
buy  the  gowns  of  the  wife  of  John  Anstell.  He  dreamed 
no  silly  dreams,  as  he  walked  away  from  the  Founda- 
tion. He  was  a  level-headed  youth.  She  was  not  for 
him;  she  was  promised  to  another.  Yet,  to  be  near  her, 
to  see  her  occasionally.  .  .  .  He  thought  that  he  would 
never  crave  more.  We  know  so  little  of  ourselves. 

He  went  back  to  his  rooms.  Forgotten  was  the  play 
which  had  been  going  to  make  his  name  and  fortune.  But 
there  were  certain  matters  that  must  be  wound  up.  Heaven 
knew  where  his  new  job  might  send  him.  He  grinned 
cheerfully  as  he  imagined  what  those  who  knew  him  best 
would  say  when  they  heard  of  his  new  work.  Tom  Barnett 
fostering  a  religious  movement:  to-morrow  he  was  to 
report  to  Anstell,  begin  work.  Like  so  many  newspaper 
men,  he'd  strayed  occasionally  into  the  realms  of  press 
agency.  The  mechanical  part  of  the  profession  he  knew. 
But  this  was  no  mechanical  job.  This  was  a  scheme,  world- 
wide in  its  scope ;  the  press  would  be  open  to  him ;  color- 
ful yarns  suggested  themselves. 

Yet  nothing  that  he  could  have  imagined  would  have 
made  quite  so  colorful  a  story  as  a  narration  of  Michael 
Anstell's  movements  that  afternoon. 

Michael  Anstell  had  lost  no  time  in  informing  the  press 
of  his  adoption  of  the  Bland  Hendricks  creed  and  his  in- 
tention, by  propaganda,  to  impose  it  upon  the  world. 
He  knew  that  the  mere  coupling  of  his  name  with  the 
Carey  Street  Foundation  would  set  the  wires  and  cables 


THE  DAY  OF  FAITH  233 

humming.  And  the  careful  statement  that  he  prepared, 
backed  by  the  statements  of  Surmase  and  the  others, 
would  astound  the  world. 

To  Judge  Galway,  who  arrived  in  response  to  a  sum- 
mons, he  gave  swift  orders. 

"  Want  a  State  government  indorsement  of  the  Day 
of  Faith,"  he  stated. 

Galway,  frankly  puzzled,  stared  at  him. 

"  What's  the  idea,  Michael?  "  he  asked. 

"  Too  much  misery  in  the  world.  Mutual  faith  will 
dissolve  it.  Too  much  worship  of  queer  gods ;  not  enough 
of  our  fellow  men." 

Galway  stroked  his  chin.  "  I  see  all  that,  Michael, 
but  —  what's  in  it,  Michael?" 

Anstell  smiled  his  wintry  smile.  "  I  knew  you'd  ask 
it,  Judge.  All  right,  I'll  answer  it:  there's  nothing  in  it 
for  me.  Good  Lord,  can't  I  do  a  decent  thing  without 
you  suspecting — " 

"  Now,  Michael,  don't  be  angry,"  said  the  judge.  "  Of 

course  you  can,  only "  He  paused,  alarmed  by  the 

Anstell  glare.  "  Just  what  do  you  want  me  to  do  ?  "  he 
asked  hastily. 

"  Trouble  with  government  is  that  it's  too  damned  im- 
personal, too  much  machinery,  not  enough  humanity  in 
it,"  said  Anstell.  "  If  the  governor  should  give  out  an 
interview  indorsing  the  proposed  Day  of  Faith  —  " 

"  Just  what  is  the  Day  of  Faith?  "  asked  Galway. 

"  Whole  world  going  to  turn  out,"  explained  Anstell. 
"  Everywhere  —  same  hour.  Repeat  that  creed  — '  My 
neighbor  is  perfect.'  China,  Africa,  Asia  —  " 

"  What  good'll  it  do?  "demanded  Galway. 

"  Good !  Good !  "  Anstell  rose  to  his  feet.  "  All  the 
good  in  the  world.  Make  people  think.  Make  'em  think 
of  their  neighbor.  Can't  say  a  thing  like  that  and  be 
trying  to  trim  your  neighbor  at  the  same  time,  can  you? 


234  THE  DAY  OF  FAITH 

Whole  world  isn't  made  up  of  damned  hypocrites.  You 
listen  to  me,  Galway.  I  want  the  governor  to  praise 
the  plan.  Then  I  want  the  legislature  to  send  me  an  in- 
vitation to  address  both  bodies  jointly.  Can  you  do  it?  " 

"  You  know  I  can,  Michael,"  was  the  reply. 

"  Then  do  it,"  was  the  command  of  the  billionaire. 

Puzzled,  Galway  withdrew.  Still,  after  all,  there  was 
something  to  this  idea  of  Michael's.  Couldn't  do  any 
harm,  anyway.  Might  tend  to  counteract  some  of  the 
Red  propaganda.  Michael  was  a  great  man,  and  this 
idea  of  his  was  a  great  one.  For  already  the  power  of 
wealth  was  talking.  Men  were  referring  to  the  "  Anstell 
idea." 

After  Galway's  departure  Anstell  denied  himself  to 
other  visitors.  He  busied  himself  with  the  telephone.  The 
man  with  whom  he  sought  conversation  was  difficult  of 
location,  but  finally  he  was  brought  to  a  'phone. 

"  This  is  Mizler,"  he  said  surlily. 

"  Michael  Anstell  talking." 

The  other  grunted  in  surprise.  "  Howza  boy  ?  "  he 
demanded. 

The  world  would  have  been  amazed  to  know  that  any 
one  spoke  thus  to  Michael  Anstell.  But  his  face  showed 
no  resentment  at  the  familiarity. 

"Fine,   Sam.     And  you?" 

"  Still  keepin'  out  of  jail.  You're  lucky,  too,  Michael, 
I  notice." 

Anstell  chuckled.     "I'm  careful,  Sam.     Busy?" 

"  Oh,  not  so  very.     Why?  " 

"  Spare  me  half  an  hour?  "  asked  the  billionaire.  His 
manner  of  request  would  still  further  have  amazed  the 
world  that  knew  and  feared  him.  For  he  put  it  as  a 
favor. 

"  Awright.    Where  ?  "  was  the  almost  reluctant  assent. 


THE  DAY  OF  FAITH  235 

"  Your  place'll  do,"  said  Anstell.  "  Be  there  in  half 
an  hour." 

Mizler  hung  up  without  another  word,  but  Michael 
Anstell  showed  no  anger  at  the  brusqueness.  For,  oddly 
enough,  Michael  Anstell,  who  ordered  potentates  with 
scant  courtesy,  treated  with  respect  the  man  Mizler,  and, 
indeed,  exacted  no  respect  in  return. 

Long  years  ago,  when  Michael  Anstell  had,  by  cer- 
tain methods  which  would  never  be  detailed  by  any  biog- 
rapher, acquired  a  certain  coal  mine  in  Pennsylvania, 
he  had  acquired  also  certain  labor  troubles.  To  parley, 
to  negotiate,  meant  time;  also  money.  Michael  Anstell 
had  never  been  a  waster  of  either.  But  it  had  occurred  to 
him  that  if  he  could  utterly  discredit  the  leader  of  the 
laborers,  he  would  win  a  cheap  victory. 

He  had  won  the  cheap  victory ;  it  had  cost  him  merely 
the  purchase  of  the  man,  Samuel  Mizler,  an  under  official 
in  the  union.  Bribed,  this  man  had  given  perjured  testi- 
mony that  had  wrecked  the  union.  Some  years  later, 
when  Anstell  had  completely  forgotten  the  incident  and 
the  man,  Mizler  called  upon  him  at  his  New  York  office. 

Anstell  had  expected  some  demand  to  be  made  upon 
him.  But  Mizler  had  made  none.  Grown  into  a  gross 
saloon  keeper,  he  had  waxed  fairly  rich  upon  the  invest- 
ment of  his  bribe.  He  wanted  nothing  from  Michael 
Anstell,  save  merely  the  gratification  of  his  curiosity. 

"  I  read  about  you,  Michael,"  he  said,  "  and  I  get 
more  curious  all  the  time.  Sooner  or  later  you'll  get  your 
come-uppance,  me  lad." 

"  And  you'll  be  glad  to  see  it,  eh,  Mizler?  "  Anstell 
had  asked. 

Mizler  shook  his  head ;  he  spat  contemptuously.  "  I 
will  not,"  he  said.  "  Why  should  I  be?  I  was  raised  on 
hokum,  Michael.  I  was  told  that  if  I  was  good  I'd  be 
rewarded.  I  was  told  that  if  I  done  wrong  me  con- 


236  THE  DAY  OF  FAITH 

science  would  raise  hell  wit*  me.  Well,  I  lived  straight 
until  you  showed  me  a  bunch  of  the  long  green,  and  I 
threw  down  me  pals.  And  I  been  gettin'  fatter  and  richer 
ever  since.  I'm  through  wit'  hokum.  But  there's  such 
a  thing  as  balance,  me  lad,  balance.  I've  been  through 
mine.  The  wife  and  the  kids  —  aw,  well,  let  be !  The 
good  and  the  bad.  They  come  one  at  a  time,  maybe,  and 
sometimes  together.  But  they  come.  I've  had  me  good 
and  I've  had  me  bad,  and,  on  the  whole,  I'm  not  sorry 
that  I  took  your  money.  Nay,  I'm  glad.  But  balance 
is  what  does  it.  You  ain't  had  your  balance  yet.  I'm 
wonderin'  when." 

That  was  all  then.  But  a  few  months  later  Michael 
Anstell  had  seen  the  man  on  the  street.  He  had  de- 
scended from  his  carriage  and  joined  Mizler  for  a  walk. 
During  the  years  that  intervened  between  that  meeting 
and  to-day  he  had  seen  Mizler  perhaps  twice  a  year. 
For  Mizler  had  grown,  by  way  of  his  saloon,  into  some- 
thing of  a  power  in  ward  politics.  Unscrupulous,  he 
could  be  —  and  was  —  useful  on  occasion. 

Further,  he  was  shrewd.  There  had  been  times  when 
Michael  Anstell  had  taken  the  judgment  of  this  saloon 
keeper,  on  matters  regarding  the  temper  of  the  people, 
ahead  of  that  of  his  high-priced  lawyers  and  lobbyists. 
It  was  a  queer  friendship,  if  such  it  could  be  termed. 
Mizler  had  no  respect  for  the  billionaire.  He  had  no  ax 
to  grind.  Wherefore  Anstell  frequently  trusted  his  wis- 
dom. 

He  found  the  man  in  the  back  room  of  what  had  been 
once  a  prosperous  saloon  on  the  lower  West  Side  and 
that  now  was  deserted.  The  glass  behind  the  bar  was 
dusty;  there  were  cobwebs  on  the  soft-drink  bottles. 
Where  once  had  been  three  bartenders  there  was  now  but 
one,  and  he  a  broken,  ill-used-seeming  old  man. 


THE  DAY  OF  FAITH  237 

"  Can't  sell  you  a  thing,"  said  Mizler,  as  the  billionaire 
entered.  "  Got  some  Scotch,  though  —  " 

Anstell  waved  aside  the  invitation.  He  sat  down  on 
a  chair. 

"  Well,  what  do  you  want  ?  "  demanded  Mizler. 

Anstell  grinned  at  him.  The  attitude  of  Mizler  al- 
ways pleased  him.  He  met  with  too  much  sycophancy. 
Also,  it  tickled  him  that  he,  the  great  Michael  Anstell, 
courted  by  prince  and  priest,  should  be,  in  the  eyes  of 
this  saloon  keeper,  an  unworthy  person.  For  Anstell 
had  never  had  scruples,  never  a  tang  of  conscience  to  un- 
rest him. 

"  Seen  the  afternoon  papers  ?  "  he  asked. 

Mizler  spat  copiously  upon  the  sawdust  floor.  "  Sell- 
ing tickets  for  a  joy  ride  to  Paradise,  eh?  "  he  grinned. 

"  Want  to  buy  one?  "  asked  Anstell. 

"  I'll  read  the  ticket  first,"  said  Mizler.  "  The  excur- 
sion may  be  the  other  way." 

"  Still  lack  faith  in  me,  do  you?  "  asked  Anstell. 

Mizler  shrugged.  "  Got  any  faith  in  yourself,  Mi- 
chael? " 

"  I  am  going  to  regenerate  the  world,  Mizler,"  said 
Anstell  solemnly. 

Mizler  paid  the  remark,  the  rare  jest,  the  tribute  of 
a  chuckle. 

"  You  doubt  me,  Mizler?  "  asked  Anstell. 

Mizler  stared  at  him.  Then  he  yawned.  "  Of  course 
I  do.  I  can't  make  out  from  the  papers  just  how  the 
graft  comes  in,  but  I  know  it's  there,  Michael." 

Anstell  shrugged.  *'  I  must  expect  this,  Mizler.  It 
doesn't  matter." 

"  I  don't  suppose  it  does,"  agreed  Mizler.  "  What  do 
you  want?  "  he  demanded  brusquely. 

"  The  world,"  said  Anstell  slowly,  "  is  in  a  distrustful 


238  THE  DAY  OF  FAITH 

mood.  It  demands  proof  —  and  it  scrutinizes  the  proofs 
that  are  offered  with  incredulous  eyes." 

"  Talk  American,"  snapped  Mizler.  "  What  do  you 
want?" 

Anstell  colored  ever  so  faintly.  "  YouVe  never  double- 
crossed  me,  Mizler." 

"  I  always  stay  bought,"  said  the  saloon  keeper. 

"  But  this  is  a  very  delicate  matter.  My  motives  might 
be  misconstrued  —  "  He  paused. 

Mizler  laughed  harshly.  "  Not  by  me,  Michael.  I'll 
TCTKOW  they're  crooked." 

From  no  other  man  in  the  world  would  Michael  An- 
stell have  taken  this.  But  Samuel  Mizler  spoke  truly 
when  he  said  that  he  stayed  bought.  His  lips  were 
always  sealed. 

"  The  world  mistrusts  me,  Mizler,"  said  Anstell.  "  It 
doubts  my  motives,  even  when,  like  now,  there  is  no  pos- 
sible source  of  profit  for  me  in  what  I  do.  I  will  spend 
scores  of  millions  for  the  betterment  of  the  world,  and  still 
there  will  be  some  doubters.  I  can't  afford  them." 

"  Too  bad,"  mocked  Mizler.  And  again  he  asked, 
"What  do  you  want?" 

*'  A  new  religion,  Mizler,  needs  an  auspicious  begin- 
ning," said  Anstell.  "  Something  that  will  blazon  it 
before  the  world  —  " 

"  What  do  you  want  ?  "  again  cried  Mizler. 

Over  Anstell's  lips  spread  the  faintest  shadow  of  a 
smile.  "  I  want,  Mizler,"  he  said,  "  about  fifteen  or  twenty 
first-class  ready-made  miracles.  Can  you  furnish  them?  " 

"  It'll  cost  money,"  replied  Mizler. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

JOHN  ANSTELL  arrived  at  his  father's  office  ten  min- 
utes after  the  departure  of  the  billionaire.  They  had 
had  an  appointment,  made  last  night,  and  the  son  had 
expected  that  his  part  in  the  great  plan  might  be  formu- 
lated then.  But  evidently  Michael  Anstell  had  forgotten 
to  inform  his  secretary  of  the  engagement,  and  it  had 
slipped  his  mind.  Or,  and  John  grinned  amiably,  per- 
haps his  father  had  deliberately  broken  it.  Press  of 
more  important  matters:  to  a  young  man  in  love  what 
difference  did  it  make? 

He  thought,  of  course,  of  calling  on  Jane  and  renew- 
ing that  sweet  tete-a-tete  that  had  been  discontinued 
when  they  parted  after  luncheon.  But  she  had  spoken 
of  her  dressmaker,  and  he  knew  how  exacting  dressmakers 
sometimes  are.  Jane  might  be  with  the  woman  hours. 
No,  there  was  no  use  in  going  to  the  Foundation. 

But  he  was  restless,  a  not  uncommon  condition  for  a 
young  man  in  love.  To  do  something,  to  see  somebody : 
he  bethought  him  of  the  A  quit ania's  sailing  this  after- 
noon. Some  friends  of  his  were  leaving  for  Europe. 
Now  that  he  was  downtown,  more  or  less  in  the  neigh- 
borhood, with  nothing  to  do,  he  might  as  well  see  them  off. 

Outside  his  father's  office  he  hailed  a  taxi,  had  him- 
self conveyed  to  a  florist's  and  a  confectioner's,  and  ar- 
rived, burdened  with  parting  gifts,  at  the  dock,  fearful 
that  he  was,  after  all,  a  trifle  late.  But  one  of  the  peren- 
nial strikes,  that  since  the  war  have  afflicted  all  industry, 
happened  to  be  going  on  at  the  moment,  had,  indeed,  been 
declared  that  very  day,  and  the  sailing  was  delayed.  Men 


240  THE  DAY  OF  FAITH 

carrying  banners,  venting  their  hatred  toward  their  em- 
ployers, marched  up  and  down  on  West  Street,  with  sullen 
eyes  watching  the  wary  and  alert  police.  An  harassed 
dock  official  held  up  the  taxi,  but  the  name  of  John  An- 
stell  was  magic,  and  he  was  admitted  when  he  produced  a 
card  and  a  letter  —  it  was  from  Jane  —  addressed  to  him. 

On  the  crowded  upper  landing  he  found  a  steward 
•who  was  willing,  for  a  consideration,  to  search  for  his 
friends,  and  when  they  were  finally  brought  to  him  he 
was  admitted  to  the  vessel.  They  were  persons,  these 
friends,  of  financial  and  social  prominence,  yet  their  greet- 
ing of  him  was  something  less  than  that  of  equals.  The 
Anstell  name  was  potent,  and  they  were  flattered  that 
one  of  its  wearers  should  condescend  to  bid  them  bon 
voyage. 

He  thought  of  this  as  he  left  the  ship.  He  felt  sud- 
denly humble,  and  then  suddenly  proud.  First  because 
he  had  done  nothing  himself  to  justify  the  laudation 
bestowed  upon  him,  and  second  because  he  was  Michael 
Anstell's  son.  After  all,  it  was  a  great  thing  to  wield 
influence,  power.  Then  he  thought  of  Jane,  and  his  eyes 
grew  less  proud  and  more  tender. 

Thinking  of  her,  it  suddenly  became  quite  impossible 
to  ride.  He  dropped  the  hand  which  he  had  raised  to 
beckon  a  taxi.  He  wanted  to  walk,  to  dream  of  her. 
And  so,  upon  his  lips  the  faintest  smile,  he  strode  up 
West  Street.  He  turned  east  shortly  and  walked  through 
Christopher  Street.  The  day  was  warm,  and  he  became 
conscious  of  being  thirsty. 

So  it  was  that  he  paused  across  the  street  from  Mizler's 
deserted  saloon.  He  had  happened  to  notice  no  drug- 
store ;  this  was  the  first  oasis  that  had  met  his  eye.  And, 
at  the  moment,  Prohibition  didn't  bother  him.  He  only 
wanted  water,  anyway. 

A  stream  of  trucks  held  him  up  for  a  moment,  and 


THE  DAY  OF  FAITH 

while  he  stood  there,  watching  his  chance  to  dash  across 
the  street,  he  saw  his  father  emerge  from  the  saloon  and 
enter  a  waiting  limousine. 

John  raised  his  hand;  he  called  loudly;  and  it  seemed 
that  his  voice  reached  through  the  shrieks  of  the  motor 
horns,  sounded  by  impatient  drivers.  For  Michael  An- 
stell  hesitated  a  moment  with  his  foot  on  the  running 
board  of  the  limousine.  John  could  feel  those  aged  but 
keen  eyes  upon  him.  Then,  to  his  surprise,  Michael  An- 
stell  stepped  into  the  car,  and  immediately,  the  traffic 
jam  ceasing,  the  machine  sped  down  the  street. 

It  was  a  queer  happening.  John  was  quite  sure  that 
not  only  had  his  father  seen  him,  but  that  he  had  recog- 
nized him.  Why,  then,  with  his  son  waving  and  calling 
a  greeting,  had  the  old  man  driven  away  without  even  a 
signal  of  recognition? 

He  was  vaguely  hurt,  offended.  Then  he  shrugged 
and  laughed.  The  lean  figure  of  his  father  was  not  an 
uncommon  one.  Of  course,  he  had  been  certain  that  he 
recognized  Michael  Anstell's  features,  but  it  was  possible 
that  he  had  been  mistaken. 

It  was  more  than  possible,  he  decided,  as  he  crossed 
the  street,  and  entered  the  saloon.  What  on  earth  could 
his  father  have  been  doing  in  such  a  place  as  this? 
Michael  Anstell  was  one  of  the  busiest  men  in  the  world. 
He  took  no  joy-rides  in  his  car.  And  if  he  had  taken 
one,  he'd  hardly  have  chosen  this  dingy  West  Side  neigh- 
borhood, where  driving  was  impeded  by  heavy  drays  and 
trucks. 

And  certainly  he  had  no  business  —  that  John  could 
imagine  —  which  would  bring  him  into  this  vicinity.  John 
had  been  mistaken,  that  was  all  there  was  to  it. 

The  decrepit  old  bartender  served  him  the  glass  of 
spring  water  that  he  asked  for,  and  John,  leisurely  sip- 
ping it,  looked  about  him.  He  wondered  at  this  place 


242  THE  DAY  OF  FAITH 

where  men  had  taken  their  pleasure.  For  even  liquor 
could  hardly  have  rendered  it  enticing.  Its  drab  sur- 
roundings had  not  been  caused  by  the  Eighteenth  Con- 
stitutional Amendment ;  they  had  always  been  there.  But 
men  had  thought  it  gay. 

Gayety,  then,  was  a  matter  of  liquor,  in  this  particu- 
lar instance.  Not  even  that ;  for  men  had  come  into  this 
place,  this  dingy  depressing  resort,  and  found  it  inviting 
before  ever  they  had  touched  a  drop  of  liquor. 

Gayety,  then,  was  a  matter  of  thought.  So  he  idly 
decided,  smiling  at  his  own  ponderosity  of  process.  For 
every  one  knew  that,  knew  it  instinctively,  without  pass- 
ing through  any  recognizable  mental  exercises  to  dis- 
cover it. 

But  if  gayety  was  mental,  why  wasn't  goodness  —  or 
evil  for  that  matter?  How  could  any  one,  then,  quarrel 
with  the  Hendricks  doctrine?  Here,  in  this  drab  place, 
for  the  first  time  he  began  to  glimpse  the  immense  possi- 
bilities ahead  of  the  campaign  for  what  his  father  had 
somewhat  fancifully  termed  The  Day  of  Faith. 

Some  of  those  persons  whom  he  had  seen  on  the  Aquv- 
tania  had  smilingly  mentioned  the  afternoon  papers  and 
their  headlines.  He  had  thought  that  he  had  noticed  de- 
rision in  their  smiles,  a  derision  carefully  veiled  lest  the  heir 
to  the  Anstell  millions  take  offence.  But  it  had  been  there, 
and  for  a  moment  it  had  embarrassed  him.  Now  he  was 
ashamed  of  that  embarrassment.  It  was  disloyalty  to 
Jane.  It  was  disloyalty  to  his  father.  This  latter  some- 
how seemed  more  important  than  the  other.  He  was  not 
conscious  of  the  fact,  but  it  was  so. 

He  put  down  his  glass,  picked  up  his  change  from  the 
counter,  and  turned  to  go.  As  he  did  so  he  saw  a  squat, 
ugly-featured  man  standing  inside  a  telephone  booth. 
Through  the  glass  panes  of  the  door  he  could  see  the 


THE  DAY  OF  FAITH  243 

man's  thick  lips  move,  could  see  the  black  and  broken 
teeth  behind  them. 

Only  a  pane  of  glass  prevented  him  from  hearing 
Mizler's  speech,  stopped  him  from  hearing  words  that 
would  have  puzzled,  then  angered  him,  and  then,  per- 
haps, might  have  caused  him  to  take  action  that  might 
have  changed  the  history  of  the  world.  But  how  could 
he  know  that  this  man  was  already  intertwined  with  the 
campaign  for  the  Day  of  Faith  ?  Already  convinced  that 
his  eyes  had  deceived  him,  that  his  father  had  not  been 
in  the  neighborhood  at  all,  he  left  the  saloon  and  con- 
tinued his  walk  uptown,  his  thoughts  once  again  resting 
tenderly  upon  Jane. 

Behind  him,  Mizler,  having  given  instructions  over  the 
telephone,  emerged  from  the  booth,  gave  certain  other 
orders  having  to  do  with  the  conduct  of  the  resort  during 
his  absence,  and  walked  briskly  away  from  his  place  of 
business.  His  telephonic  instructions  must  be  followed 
up  by  personal  commands. 

As  he  walked,  he,  too,  smiled  tenderly.  For  in  his 
pockets  were  fat  rolls  of  bills.  He  had  told  Michael 
Anstell  that  the  procuring  of  a  score  of  miracles  would 
cost  money.  But  he  did  not  intend  that  it  should  cost 
more  than  a  small  percentage  of  the  small  fortune  which 
Michael  Anstell  had  given  him.  Mizler  didn't  need  money ; 
he  was  comfortably  off,  rich  in  a  small  way.  But  why 
disdain  the  gifts  the  gods  provided?  His  smile  broad- 
ened into  a  grin;  a  chuckle  came  occasionally  from  his 
thick  lips. 

But  he  was  stern  and  business-like  when,  at  the  end 
of  half  an  hour,  he  arrived  at  another  saloon,  as  drab 
and  dingy  as  his  own,  on  the  opposite  side  of  town.  Here 
the  Eighteenth  Amendment  was  not  observed  as  strictly 
as  Mizler  observed  it.  In  a  back  room  were  soiled  souls, 
male  and  female,  who  eyed  the  stranger  furtively,  almost 


THE  DAY  OF  FAITH 

menacingly,  as  he  passed  through.  But  Mizler,  despite 
the  prosperity  of  his  apparel,  wore  a  truculent-seeming 
countenance  above  a  sturdy  body.  Moreover,  the  waiter 
who  served  forbidden  liquids  seemed  to  know  him,  to  make 
way  for  his  passage,  and  the  soiled  souls  promptly  for- 
got him.  He  was  not  game  for  them  and  their  tricks, 
as  many  and  as  evil  as  their  number. 

He  went  through  a  swinging  door  at  the  far  side  of 
the  back  room  and  immediately  descended  a  flight  of 
stairs.  Confronted  by  another  door,  he  knocked  upon 
it.  Admitted  in  a  moment,  he  found  himself  in  a  cellar- 
like  apartment,  lined  with  benches,  above  which,  ranged 
along  the  walls,  were  bunks  like  those  to  be  found  in  the 
forecastle  of  a  ship.  He  was  in  what  was  possibly  the 
most  unique  place  in  New  York,  a  beggars'  club. 

It  bore  no  name,  save  possibly  the  "  Hang-out,"  by 
which  its  members  referred  to  it.  There  were  no  dues, 
save  a  willingness  to  purchase  drink  and  occasional  food 
from  the  proprietor  of  the  saloon  upstairs.  But  admis- 
sion was  jealously  guarded.  Only  one  known  to  the 
habitues  as  a  professional  mendicant  could  become  fa- 
miliar with  this  apartment.  Here  were  discussed  the 
latest  tricks  of  their  ancient  trade,  the  activities  of  the 
police  and  charitable  societies;  here  also  the  beggars  re- 
laxed, swapped  yarns  and  experiences. 

Mizler  had  a  strong  stomach.  Also,  he  knew  that 
not  one  in  five  of  the  two  score  persons  lounging  on  the 
benches  or  shooting  craps  on  the  floor  had  any  real  dis- 
ease or  disfigurement.  But  paint  and  bandages  and 
crutches  carry  their  own  air  of  suggestion.  These,  to 
all  appearances,  were  the  hopelessly  deformed  and  crip- 
pled, the  mutilated. 

A  man  not  very  unlike  Mizler  in  appearance  greeted 
the  visitor  warmly. 

"  I've  told  them,"  he  said.    "  There  ain't  one  of  them 


THE  DAY  OF  FAITH  245 

that  won't  be  healed,  fine  and  dandy  like  the  doctor  or- 
dered, at  a  minute's  notice." 

Mizler  grunted.  "  It  ain't  rough  stuff,"  he  said.  "  Nor 
all  at  once.  I  want  —  to-night  —  about  two ;  that's 
all.  But  good  ones." 

The  other,  patently  the  proprietor  of  the  saloon  above, 
looked  around  the  room.  He  beckoned  to  two  men,  then 
turned  without  a  word  and  walked  stolidly  from  the  room. 
At  the  door  he  turned  and  at  the  end  of  a  hall  opened 
a  door  and  entered  a  smaller  apartment.  Mizler  followed 
him,  while  the  two  selected  beggars  came  behind.  The 
host  closed  the  door. 

Mizler  immediately  got  down  to  business. 

"  To-night,"  he  said,  "  at  the  Bland  Hendricks  Foun- 
dation, on  Carey  Street,  you  guys  get  cured,  see?  You 
go  in  there  —  there'll  probably  be  a  mob,  but  you  crash 
in  somehow  and  you  get  cured.  Just  by  hanging  around 
the  dump ;  get  me?  " 

The  taller  of  the  two  beggars  nodded.  "  How  much  ?  " 
he  asked. 

"  Twenty-five  apiece,"  said  Mizler.  "  And  listen  — 
you  blow  —  quick.  Get  me?  No  hanging  around  for, 
maybe,  some  damn  doctor  to  give  you  the  once-over 
and  find  you  got  nothing  worse'n  dandruff  ailin'  you. 
Understand?  " 

The  shorter  man  nodded.  "  We  get  you,"  he  said. 
"  When  do  we  get  the  dough?  " 

"  You  get  it  to-night,  after  the  trick  is  pulled,"  said 
Mizler.  "  Jim,  here,"  and  he  nodded  toward  the  pro- 
prietor of  the  place,  "  will  slip  you  the  kale." 

"  Fair  enough,"  said  the  taller.  With  his  companion 
he  walked  to  the  door,  and  they  departed,  leaving  the 
other  two. 

"  What's  the  big  idea,  Mizler?  "  asked  the  man  called 
Jim. 


246  THE  DAY  OF  FAITH 

"  You  seen  the  afternoon  papers  ?  "  countered  Mizler. 
"  No?  Well,  there's  a  big  time  over  this  girl  Jane  May- 
nard's  dump  on  Carey  Street.  You've  heard  of  her,  ain't 
you?  Well,"  he  went  on,  as  the  other  nodded,  "  old  man 
Anstell  —  the  big  millionaire  —  is  backing  her.  He 
wants  a  little  jazz,  right  at  the  start.  This  is  the  way 
we  get  it.  Some  phony  miracles.  Those  guys'll  keep( 
their  mouths  shut?  " 

"  They're  ain't  a  guy  comes  into  this  place  a  second 
time,"  said  Jim,  "  but  what  I  got  his  number :  his  Head- 
quarters, Rogues  Gallery  number.  I  could  slide  any  one 
of  them  up  the  river  wit'  a  word.  Where  do  I  come  in?  " 

Slowly,  portentously,  Mizler  put  his  right  hand  in  a 
pocket.  He  withdrew  it  slowly,  and  when  it  came  out  it 
clutched  a  bundle  of  bills.  He  handed  them  over  to  the 
man  Jim,  who  seized  them  eagerly. 

"  You  can  subtract,"  said  Mizler.  "  You  can  read 
your  profit  there.  And  just  remember  this,  Jim:  You 
can  slide  any  one  of  those  babies  in  there  up  the  river. 
Don't  forget  I  can  do  the  same  thing  with  you." 

"  Aw,  why  talk  that  way?  "  grumbled  the  other.  "  Have 
I  ever  double-crossed  you  ?  " 

"  Not  yet,"  said  Mizler.  "  Don't  let  this  be  the  first 
time.  It'd  be  damn'  unhealthy,  Jim.  I'll  'phone  you  later, 
maybe  to-morrow,  and  give  you  some  more  dope  on 
what's  to  be  done." 

That  was  his  last  word.  He  rose  and  stalked  sol- 
emnly from  the  room,  up  the  stairs,  through  the  crowded 
back  room  and  out  into  the  East  Side.  He  chuckled 
more  loudly  now.  He  had  bought  Anstell  his  miracles, 
paid  a  go-between,  and  pocketed  some  thousands  for  him- 
self. Not  a  bad  day's  business. 

At  nine  o'clock  that  night  Mizler  rang  the  bell  of 
Michael  Anstell's  mansion.  The  uniformed  servant  who 


THE  DAY  OF  FAITH  247 

answered  looked  at  him  disdainfully.  Mr.  Anstell  could 
see  nobody. 

"  He'll  see  me,"  said  Mizler  truculently.  "  You  tell 
him  Mizler's  here.  Mizler:  got  the  name?  You  take 
it  in  to  him  or  I'll  bust  in  your  pasty  face.  Got  that?  " 

Now  the  Anstell  home  was  guarded  against  cranks ; 
armed  men  lurked  within  call  of  the  servant.  But  the 
servant  didn't  raise  his  voice,  for  at  the  moment  Anstell 
himself  came  downstairs.  He  paused  a  moment,  and  his 
old  eyes  flashed  anger. 

"  What  do  you  want  ?  "  he  asked  angrily. 

Mizler  drew  a  shaky  hand  across  his  forehead.  "  I 
wanta  talk  to  you,"  he  said. 

His  excitement  —  perhaps  it  was  something  more  than 
excitement ;  it  seemed  like  fear  —  impressed  the  billion- 
aire. He  nodded  reassuringly  to  the  servant. 

"  This  way,"  he  said  to  Mizler,  and  led  him  into  a 
small  reception  room.  "  Now,  what  is  it  ?  "  he  demanded 
harshly. 

"  This,"  said  Mizler.  From  his  pocket  he  drew  a 
bunch  of  currency.  "  Take  it,"  he  commanded.  He 
thrust  it  into  Anstell's  hand  and  sighed  with  relief  when 
it  had  parted  from  his  own.  "  Sure,  it's  devil's  money," 
he  said. 

Anstell  frowned.    "  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  I  mean  that  I've  paid  out  the  balance,  but  the  rest, 
what  I  didn't  give  away,  is  there,"  said  Mizler.  "  Keep 
it." 

"Why?"  asked  Anstell. 

Mizler  wiped  his  wet  forehead  with  a  handkerchief. 

"  I'll  tell  you  why,  Michael,  and  for  your  own  good  let 
me  words  sink  in,"  said  Mizler.  "  I  fixed  your  damn  mir- 
acles; had  'em  all  framed.  And  then,  likin'  a  joke  my- 
self, I  went,  an  hour  or  so  ago,  to  this  Foundation  on 
Carey  Street.  Me  men  —  I'd  planted  two  fake  cripples 


248  THE  DAY  OF  FAITH 

for  to-night  —  hadn't  shown  up,  but  I  went  inside,  to 
get  a  ringside  seat  for  the  fun.  I  repeated  the  rigamarole 
they  make  ye  say  and  got  in,  and  —  right  ahead  of  me 
was  an  old  guy,  older  than  me  and  you,  Michael,  that  I 
recognized." 

He  paused,  as  though  for  breath. 

"  Well,  what  about  it  ?  "  demanded  Anstell. 

"  It  was  Lacy  Parker  —  you  know  him.  Him  that 
married  when  he  was  over  sixty  and  had  the  crippled 
daughter  a  year  later,  her  that's  been  crippled  for  the 
last  ten  years,  that  they've  brought  doctors  from  Europe 
to  treat  with  never  a  bit  of  success.  Ye  mind  her?  " 

Anstell  knew ;  the  whole  world  knew  of  the  marriage  of 
Lacy  Parker,  the  millionaire  bon  vivant,  to  his  chorus- 
girl  sweetheart;  the  child  that  had  been  born  to  them; 
the  death  of  the  mother;  the  devotion  of  the  old  man  to 
the  daughter. 

Something  seemed  to  grip  Anstell  by  the  heart,  to  chill 
him. 

"  Well,  what  about  it?  "  he  asked. 

"  There's  this  about  it,"  cried  Mizler.  "  Ten  minutes 
after  I  went  in  I  come  out.  I  met  me  fake  cripples  on 
the  sidewalk,  and  I  kicked  the  both  of  them  half  a  block, 
the  whiles  I  told  them  what  damn'  sacrilegious  dogs  they 
were,  and  then  I  went  to  me  friend  what  got  them  for 
me,  and  I  caUed  all  bets  off,  and " 

"  Why?  "  demanded  Anstell.  Yet  he  knew  the  answeq 
before  Mizler  uttered  it. 

"  Because  Lacy  Parker's  girl  is  cured,  that's  why, 
Michael  Anstell,"  cried  Mizler.  "  Because  I'll  have  no 
truck  wit*  what  ye  wanted  me  to  do.  Michael  Anstell, 
don't  ye  understand?  I  saw  the  little  girl  dancin*,  singin% 
while  the  mob  there  went  wild  —  Michael  Anstell,  would 
ye  monkey  wit*  the  powers  above  ye  ?  " 

Anstell  smiled.     "  I  told  you,  Mizler,  that  I  was  back 


THE  DAY  OF  FAITH  249 

ing  this  plan.  I  only  wanted  the  fake  miracles  to  im- 
press the  world " 

"  I  heard  ye  say  that  to-day,"  said  Mizler.  "  But, 
man,  ain't  ye  impressed  yourself?  " 

Anstell  smiled;  it  was  a  most  benevolent  smile,  and  it 
fooled  Mizler.  "  Of  course,  Mizler.  But  I  knew  it  all 
the  time.  I  merely  wanted  the  world  to  know  it." 

"  It'll  know  it  to-morrow,"  said  Mizler.  "  Lacy  Park- 
er's daughter !  The  whole  world  will  marvel." 

But  after  he  had  gone,  the  something  that  had  gripped 
Anstell's  heart  relaxed  its  hold.  Why  shouldn't  a  miracle 
be  worked?  There  was  the  Shrine  of  St.  Anne  de  Beaupre, 
Lourdes,  the  testimonies  of  the  Christian  Scientists.  Emo- 
tional excitement !  Mizler,  with  his  talk  of  powers  above* 
was  an  ignorant,  credulous  man. 


CHAPTER  XXV 

THE  address  of  Michael  Anstell  to  the  joint  session 
of  both  houses  of  the  legislature  of  the  State  of  New 
York  marked  an  epoch  in  the  affairs  of  mankind.  Great 
men  outside  the  realm  of  politics  and  statecraft  had  ad- 
dressed parliamentary  bodies  before.  Ministers  of  the 
Gospel  who  had  attained  prominence  in  their  profession 
had  done  so.  But,  so  far  as  men  could  remember,  no 
layman  had  ever  before  delivered  a  religious  address 
to  a  legislative  assembly. 

Had  Michael  Anstell  belonged  to  any  particular  church, 
powerful  influences,  despite  his  tremendous  prominence, 
would  have  fought  bitterly  against  the  unique  event.  For 
churches  are  as  jealous  of  each  other  as  rival  baseball 
nines,  with  the  difference  that  rival  baseball  nines  rarely 
kill  each  other. 

But  even  those  persons  who  felt  that  their  own  par- 
ticular creed  might  be  threatened  by  the  ascendancy  of 
Michael  Anstell's  plan  kept  silent.  For  the  world  was 
dazed.  True,  miracles  had  happened  before.  Men,  women 
and  children  had  been  healed,  unless  thousands  deliber- 
ately lied,  by  what  seemed  the  intervention  of  God. 

But  there  had  never,  in  recent  times  at  any  rate,  been 
so  spectacular  a  cure  as  that  of  the  daughter  of  Lacy 
Parker.  For  this  wdfe  not  like  the  cure  of  Tom  Barnett ; 
that  had  been  a  thing  of  a  minute  only,  and  not  too  many 
had  believed  that  it  had  lasted  that  long.  Indeed,  when 
Michael  Anstell  publicly  announced  his  backing  of  Jane 
Maynard,  there  were  not  lacking  those  who  sneered,  and 


THE  DAY  OF  FAITH  251 

said  that  he  had  "  planted  "  the  Tom  Barnett  story  in 
the  Blade. 

But  Lacy  Parker  was  not  the  sort  who  could  be 
"  planted."  His  financial  and  social  position,  his  deep 
and  widely  known  devotion  to  his  crippled  daughter,  the 
fact  that  the  best  medical  attention  had  failed  to  heal 
the  girl,  these  things  made  the  public  believe. 

Before  there  had  been  talk  of  miracles.  But  the  Par- 
ker incident  left  nothing  to  speculation :  the  girl  was  well, 
and  that  was  all  there  was  to  it.  The  new  creed  had 
proved  itself.  Let  scientists  scoff  and  jeer  and  talk  about 
emotional  reflexes  and  such  matters !  Hadn't  science, 
American  and  European,  failed  to  heal  the  Parker  girl? 
That  was  the  layman's  answer. 

But  after  Michael  Anstell's  speech  to  the  legislature, 
the  world  almost  forgot  the  Parker  girl.  For  Michael 
Anstell  was  no  fanatic;  he  was  no  soft-hearted  or  soft- 
minded  sentimentalist.  He  was  the  greatest  financier  of 
all  time.  And  he  told  the  government  of  New  York  what 
a  Day  of  Faith  would  accomplish. 

"  It  will  awaken,"  he  said,  "  that  latent  kindliness  that 
is  in  the  heart  of  every  man.  It  will  eradicate  hate.  It 
may  eradicate  nationalism,  but  to  what  harm?  It  is  na- 
tionalism that  causes  wars.  Patriotism  is  a  great  virtue, 
but  a  virtue  of  necessity.  If  the  necessity  for  patriotism 
were  destroyed,  where  would  be  its  virtue?  Jealousy  — 
how  could  this  live  in  a  world  that  thought  its  neighbor 
perfect  ? 

"  The  diplomatic  leaders  of  the  world  have  asked  for 
agreements,  contracts  with  one  another.  It  is  as  though 
I  asked  my  neighbor  to  promise  that  he  would  not  deceive 
me.  If  he  is  the  sort  who  could  deceive,  of  what  avail  his 
written  bond  to  play  me  fair? 

"  The  world  has  dealt  as  does  a  physician  who  deals 
with  symptoms  only  and  makes  no  effort  to  attack  the 


THE  DAY  OF  FAITH 

root  of  the  disease.  A  thousand  churches  and  a  thou- 
sand creeds !  Beneath  them  all  this  fundamental  thought 
given  to  the  world  by  Bland  Hendricks,  who  died  in  sup- 
port of  his  faith.  '  My  neighbor  is  perfect.*  Why  should 
not  these  warring  creeds  meet  on  the  common  ground? 
Let  them  have  their  different  gods,  but  let  them  all  recog- 
nize that  there  is  but  one  man,  and  that  man  perfect !  " 

A  world  listened  and  read,  astounded.  But  the  column- 
ists who  would  have  jeered,  the  cartoonists  who  would 
have  scoffed,  these  received  their  orders.  For  the  group 
of  men  who  had  allied  themselves  with  Michael  Anstell 
controlled  hundreds,  thousands  of  banks.  And  the  banks 
spoke  to  the  newspaper  proprietors.  Never,  even  in 
those  halcyon  days  before  Roosevelt,  had  big  business 
wielded  the  power  that  it  wielded  now,  and  big  business 
was  beneath  the  thumb  of  Michael  Anstell  and  his  asso- 
ciates. 

For  the  people  must  be  given  something.  They  had 
fought  a  war  for  peace,  and  they  had  laid  the  founda- 
tions of  new  wars.  Industry  was  shattered  all  over  the 
world.  If  men,  instead  of  being  set  against  one  another, 
could  be  made  to  extend  the  fraternal  hand.  ...  Of 
course,  even  a  Day  of  Faith  would  not  bring  a  millennium. 
In  cold  blood,  Anstell's  associates  conceded  that.  But  it 
would  bring  about  a  great  awakening  of  religious  feel- 
ing, and  for  once  without  prejudice  toward  another's 
creed,  and  that  was  enough  for  those  associates. 

But  those  who  dared  express  to  Anstell  doubts  of  the 
world's  complete  regeneration  were  cried  down  by  him. 

"  I  tell  you,"  he  said,  "  the  world  is  ready.  The  world 
has  been  promised  Messiahs  for  centuries.  That  has  been 
wrong.  The  world  is  its  own  Messiah!  The  world  looks 
to  some  one  to  bring  them  virtue  and  happiness.  That 
virtue,  that  happiness,  is  in  the  world ;  none  can  bring  it 


THE  DAY  OF  FAITH  253 

to  the  world ;  it  is  there ;  the  world  has  only  to  recognize 
its  presence." 

Slightly  cracked,  some  of  his  closest  companions  said. 
But  even  so:  to  wake  the  world,  to  warm  it  into  religious 
fervor;  what  nobler  work  could  man  do? 

The  governor  of  New  York  appointed  a  commission 
to  plan  a  Day  of  Faith,  and  to  communicate  with  other 
State  governments  for  the  purpose  of  mutual  observance 
of  the  day.  Michael  Anstell  headed  that  commission.  He 
spoke  a  month  later  to  the  Congress  of  the  United  States, 
and  then  the  State  commission  dropped  its  work,  for  the 
Federal  Government  declared,  six  months  ahead,  a  na- 
tional holiday  to  be  known  as  the  Day  of  Faith. 

Quicker  than  Michael  Anstell  had  dreamed,  his  vision 
began  to  take  definite  shape.  He  had  underestimated  the 
tremendous  influence  of  his  name,  his  fortune  and  his 
power. 

For  it  was  Anstell  people  followed,  and  not  Jane  May- 
nard,  although  she  was  in  the  front  of  the  foreground. 
And  this  did  not  please  her.  She  shrank  from  too  much 
publicity.  She  wanted  no  personal  acclaim.  Enough  for 
her  that  a  world  that  only  a  few  months  ago  had  thought 
her  insane,  that  had  put  her  liberty  in  jeopardy  before 
a  jury  of  her  peers,  now  cheered  her. 

For  the  world  was  taking  the  Anstell  plan  seriously. 
Michael  Anstell  knew  the  value  of  propaganda.  He  had 
watched  its  workings  during  the  Bloody  Years.  He  had 
seen  how  credulous  were  the  people,  had  learned  that  the 
most  extravagant  untruths,  falsehoods  that  bear  their 
own  stamp  upon  them,  blazoned  for  the  seeing  to  see,  are 
accepted,  swallowed  whole  by  a  gullible  world. 

It  was  a  world,  too,  which  worships  respectability. 
This  creed  was  like  no  other  in  history.  Within  a  few 
scant  weeks  of  Jane  Maynard's  opening  of  the  house  on 


254  THE  DAY  OF  FAITH 

Carey  Street,  money,  the  visible  emblem  of  respectability, 
was  behind  it. 

It  was  a  creed  with  its  prophet,  too,  who  had  died  for 
its  sake.  It  was  a  creed  with  its  apostle  who  spread  the 
dead  man's  doctrine.  It  satisfied  the  craving  for  drama 
inherent  in  all  human  kind.  But  best  of  all,  it  offended 
no  one! 

This  was  where  the  genius  of  Michael  Anstell,  a  genius 
that  had  carried  him  to  the  foremost  place  held  in  the 
world  by  a  private  citizen,  had  shone  most  illuminat- 
ingly. 

All  other  creeds  that  had  been  born  into  the  world 
of  necessity  offended  millions.  The  new  creed  always 
said  that  the  old  ones  were  wrong.  But  this  new  creed 
did  nothing  of  that  sort.  Acceptable  to  all  creeds,  how 
could  the  proponents  of  any  of  them  object? 

There  was  another  matter,  too,  that  helped,  and  that 
Michael  Anstell,  with  uncanny  foresight,  had  known. 
There  were  no  obligations  in  the  new  creed.  No  trouble- 
some ritual  to  master,  no  attendance  at  church,  none  of 
those  things  which  always  go  with  new  creeds. 

The  wonder  was  not  that  the  world  acclaimed  the  new 
creed  in  a  few  months;  the  wonder  was  that  Michael 
Anstell  found  it  necessary  to  spend  any  money  at  all, 
that  acclamation  was  delayed  even  a  day. 

For  Anstell  spent  money  as  it  had  never  been  spent 
before  on  the  propagation  of  a  new  idea.  Tom  Barnett 
was  the  personal  publicity  man  of  Anstell  and  Jane,  and 
also  the  directing  head  of  all  the  publicity  machinery. 
His  salary  was  raised  the  second  month  to  six  hundred 
dollars  a  week,  an  undreamed-of  stipend  for  the  young 
newspaper  man. 

And  under  him  were  a  score  of  trained  writers,  dis- 
seminating news  of  the  progress  of  the  Anstell  plan.  But 
this  expense  was  nothing. 


THE  DAY  OF  FAITH  255 

Anstell  sent  five  hundred  trained  speakers  out  through 
the  country;  he  hired  halls  for  them;  he  paid  for  huge 
advertisements  in  the  papers.  For  it  was  not  enough  that 
the  States  and  Federal  Government  should  indorse  him, 
he  must  make  the  people  want  the  Day  of  Faith. 

He  made  them  want  it. 

To  England,  to  France,  to  Spain,  to  Italy,  to  Ger- 
man}1, to  Russia,  to  all  of  Europe;  to  all  of  South  Amer- 
ica ;  to  all  of  Asia ;  to  Africa ;  to  the  far  islands  of  the 
Pacific ;  to  all  these  places  went  ships,  specially  chartered 
by  Michael  Anstell.  The  cables  and  the  wireless  heralded 
the  coming  of  these  ships ;  notables  met  their  passengers 
when  they  disembarked.  They  were  the  missionaries  of 
the  new  creed.  And  where,  in  savage  parts,  there  were 
missionaries  of  the  older  creeds,  these  joined  with  the 
newcomers  to  spread  the  doctrine. 

France,  shriveling  with  hate  of  Germany,  surprised 
the  world  by  being  the  first  to  follow  the  lead  of  the 
United  States  and  declare  a  Day  of  Faith.  It  chose  the 
same  date  as  the  American  Congress  had  done.  England 
followed.  Germany,  a  pariah  among  nations,  was  third, 
and,  while  she  received  scant  encouragement,  she  was  not 
rebuked  for  her  presumption. 

Liberia,  the  black  republic  of  Africa,  was  fourth.  And 
then  it  was  like  a  nominating  convention  falling  into  line 
behind  a  popular  candidate.  India,  not  merely  the  Brit- 
ish Government,  but  the  people  of  India ;  Russia  —  the 
world ! 

Morality  is  not  a  definite  thing;  right  is  as  changeable 
as  the  waves  of  the  sea.  Not  many  years  ago  a  world  was 
horrified,  its  morality  outraged,  when  it  learned  that 
German  soldiery  had  used  gas  in  its  attacks.  When  the 
war  closed  it  was  popularly  believed  that  the  United 
States  had  just  perfected  a  gas  that  would  outdo  any  of 
the  horrors  that  had  been  attributed  to  the  Germans. 


256  THE  DAY  OF  FAITH 

And  all  looked  upon  the  perfection  of  this  invention  as 
right  and  honorable.  Which  it  was,  for  necessity  makes 
morality. 

So  now,  whenever  a  man  lifted  his  voice  to  oppose  the 
Anstell  plan,  men  cried  him  down.  He  was  immoral ;  the 
world  needed  something  like  the  Bland  Hendricks  creed, 
and  therefore  the  man  who  opposed  necessity  was  un- 
righteous. 

"  My  neighbor  is  perfect,"  men  were  already  saying. 
Yet  the  man  who  denied  that  they  abused. 

But  this  was  not  a  disturbing  matter,  either  to  Jane 
or  to  Michael  Anstell.  Humanity,  he  told  her,  could  not 
be  changed  in  a  day.  Wait,  he  advised,  until  the  Day  of 
Faith  had  come  and  gone.  Then,  with  the  tremendous 
example  of  a  world  crying  for  light,  the  impatience  of 
the  present  new  converts  would  pass. 

So  she  hoped.  Yet,  during  these  months,  she  really 
found  herself  less  concerned  with  the  momentous  event 
ahead  of  the  world  than  with  her  own  private  affairs. 

She  loved  John  Anstell.  She  knew  that.  Freely  had 
she  given  her  lips  to  him;  surrendered  to  his  embraces. 
Yet,  at  the  same  time  that  her  lips  were  pressed  against 
John's,  she  found  herself  thinking  of  Tom  Barnett. 

For,  of  necessity,  she  saw  him  frequently.  Anstell  had 
persuaded  her  that  people  are  but  human  beings.  Never, 
in  all  history,  has  an  idea  succeeded  without  a  champion. 
Men  like  the  man  who  tells  them  the  obvious.  True,  they 
have  known  the  obvious,  but  they  haven't  bothered  to 
phrase  it,  even  in  their  minds. 

The  Anstell  plan,  the  Hendricks  creed,  were  all  very 
well.  Anstell  would  take  the  burden  of  the  work,  the 
majority  of  the  publicity,  which  he  professed  to  disdain 
and  hate.  But  the  public  must  have  its  idol,  its  romantic 
figure.  Jane  filled  the  bill.  So,  over  and  over  again,  she 
read  the  story  of  her  life,  read  of  Montreal  Sammy's  en- 


THE  DAY  OF  FAITH  257 

trance  into  her  father's  room,  and  those  things  which  had 
happened  afterwards,  which  she  would  fain  have  for- 
gotten, but  read  as  part  of  her  martyrdom. 

For  it  was  a  martyrdom.  Only  because  her  conscience 
had  ached  for  what  had  happened  to  Bland  Hendricks 
had  she  opened  the  Carey  Street  home.  The  rest  was 
martyrdom.  And  yet,  not  unpleasant,  since  John  An- 
stell  had  entered  into  her  life.  And  even  less  unpleasant 
since  Tom  Barnett's  merry  life  had  become  mingled  with 
her  own.  For  he  was  the  one  who  put  her  before  the  pub- 
lic. Of  course,  then,  he  must  know  her  well. 

She  wondered  that  Barnett  and  John  did  not  seem  to 
care  for  each  other.  Of  course,  John  was  too  well-bred 
to  utter  a  word  in  disfavor  of  the  other,  and  Barnett 
would  hardly  have  criticised,  now,  the  fiance  of  Jane 
Maynard. 

She  was  too  deeply  in  love  with  John  to  note  what  she 
would  have  known  at  any  other  stage  in  her  career:  that 
Barnett,  too,  loved  her.  Yet,  at  times,  she  caught  her- 
self thinking  of  Barnett  and  colored  in  resentment  at  her 
own  disloyalty.  For  she  did  not  yet  dream  that  Barnett 
was  ever  to  play  any  part  in  her  life  beyond  that  of  pub- 
licity man. 

The  months  went  on.  Nearer  and  nearer  grew  the  Day 
of  Faith.  John  Anstell  was  frequently  absent  from  New 
York.  In  carrying  out  his  father's  plan,  he  made  trips 
to  California,  made  a  flying  visit  to  Mexico,  where  he 
conferred  with  the  president  of  that  turbulent  republic, 
bringing,  as  unofficial  ambassador,  States  and  nations 
closer  together,  helping  to  arrange  that  simultaneity  of 
utterance  of  the  Hendricks  creed  that  was  part  of  the 
great  plan. 

It  was  on  his  return  from  one  of  these  trips  that  he 
went  directly  from  the  railroad  station  to  his  father's 
home.  His  taxi  deposited  him  at  the  house  in  the  late 


;258  THE  DAY  OF  FAITH 

evening,  and  as  he  crossed  the  sidewalk,  after  paying  his 
fare,  he  saw  a  man  emerge  from  the  house.  Under  the 
glare  of  the  door  light  he  recognized  him.  It  was  the 
squat,  ugly  man  whom  some  months  ago  he  had  seen  in 
the  telephone  booth  of  the  lower  West  Side  saloon  where 
he  had  drunk  a  glass  of  water,  and  from  which  he  thought 
he  had  seen  his  father  make  his  exit. 

He  had  never  mentioned  to  his  father  his  imagined 
recognition  of  him.  But  now,  the  greetings  after  separa- 
tion accomplished,  he  said : 

"  Funny  thing,  Father.  Several  months  ago  I  saw 
you  coming  out  of  a  saloon  —  the  day  I  saw  the  Windsors 
off  on  the  Aquitania.  Walked  home  and  was  looking  for 
a  place  to  get  a  drink.  Saw  you  come  out  and  hollered 
to  you,  and  could  have  sworn  that  you  recognized  me  and 
cut  me  dead.  Then  I  decided  that  I'd  been  mistaken.  But 
just  now  I  saw  leaving  this  house  a  man  whom  I  saw 
that  day  in  the  saloon.  So  I  did  see  you,  didn't  I?  " 

Now,  Mizler  had  been  paying  a  call  upon  Anstell  for 
a  perfectly  legitimate  reason.  Since  the  night  that  he 
had  returned  the  bulk  of  Anstell's  money  Mizler  had  seen 
nothing  of  the  billionaire.  But  to-night  he  had  called  to 
ask  Anstell's  advice  about  the  negotiation  of  a  loan.  The 
business  settled,  they  had  discussed,  for  a  few  moments, 
the  Day  of  Faith,  and  the  saloon  keeper  had  shaken  his 
head  gravely.  He  approved,  but  he  couldn't  figure  out 
how  Anstell  happened  to  push  the  plan.  But  he'd  been 
civil  and  had  not  expressed  his  doubts. 

It  would  have  been  very  simple  for  Anstell  to  have 
stated  that  he  had  been  at  the  saloon  on  the  day  in 
question,  but  that  he  had  not  recognized  his  son.  But 
he  had  leaped  into  his  limousine  that  day  in  haste,  be- 
cause his  conscience  was  guilty.  He  had  been  planning 
the  fake  miracles  that  had  never  occurred  and  had  not 


THE  DAY  OF  FAITH  259! 

wished  his  son  to  suspect.  And  so  now,  quickly,  he  an- 
swered : 

"  Why,  yes,  John,  a  man  was  calling  on  me.  But  —  I 
never  was  in  any  saloon  on  the  lower  West  Side." 

It  was  a  pitiful  lie.  John  had  not  mentioned  the  lo- 
calit}r  of  the  saloon.  He  felt  almost  physically  ill.  Why 
should  his  father  lie  to  him?  Why? 

If  he  could  have  answered  that  question  correctly,  then, 
much  unhappiness  would  have  been  spared  him ;  he  might 
have  won  that  which  was  most  precious  to  him  now,  and 
would  be  the  more  precious  when  it  should  have  been  denied 
to  him.  For,  later  on,  pride  and  prejudice  and  greed 
would  advance  their  potent  arguments,  arguments  that 
he  could  meet  and  master  to-day,  but  that  to-morrow 
would  seem  unanswerable. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

THE  imagination  of  the  world  had  been  gripped.  It  is 
easily  seized,  this  imagination  of  the  world,  but  never  by 
cold  facts.  The  calm,  cold  logician  looks  in  amazement 
at  a  world  that  rejects  his  proved  statements,  that  hardly 
heeds  his  arguments.  He  does  not  understand  that  man 
never  willingly  uses  his  reason;  he  prefers  to  rely  on  his 
emotions  and  those  surviving  instincts  that  have  come 
down  the  ages.  Great  politicians  know  this.  They  never 
bother  to  appeal  to  the  mind  of  the  mob;  they  appeal  to 
its  imagination. 

Michael  Anstell  could  have  been  a  great  politician; 
he  could,  had  he  so  chosen,  have  made  people  love  him, 
could  have  been  one  of  those  amazing  figures  of  Ameri- 
can life  the  mere  mention  of  whose  name  brings  mad  ap- 
plause. Instead,  he  had  chosen  money  and  the  hatred 
of  the  mob.  But  now  he  had  proved  that  he  knew  the 
mob  psychology,  that  he  could  bend  it  to  his  will.  For 
the  Day  of  Faith  had  dawned. 

Of  course,  not  even  the  genius  of  a  Michael  Anstell, 
nor  his  lavish  expenditure  of  unheard-of  sums,  could  have 
brought  about  this  Day  of  Faith  in  any  other  than  a 
war-worn  world. 

But  the  old  gods  had  been  hurled  from  their  pedestals. 
The  world  had  gone  along  for  centuries,  for  hundreds  of 
centuries,  carried  by  yesterday's  momentum.  Men  had 
been  born  with  new  ideas,  and  these  ideas  had  been  tried. 
New  forms  of  government,  wide  extension  of  the  suffrage, 


THE  DAY  OF  FAITH  261 

the  abolishing  of  evils  as  soon  as  they  were  recognized  as 
such,  —  the  world  had  indubitably  tried  to  better  itself. 

Perhaps  it  had  succeeded.  But  it  was  hard  to  convince 
the  mother  mourning  for  her  son,  the  child  crying  for  its 
father,  and  the  bride  looking  unavailingly  for  her  husband 
that  the  world  had  bettered  itself. 

For  centuries  men  had  looked  backward,  with  shocked 
amazement,  upon  the  record  of  the  past.  Thankfully  they 
had  said  that  their  times  were  better,  that  the  fiendish 
cruelty  and  greed  of  yesteryear  could  not  exist  to-day. 
And  then,  suddenly,  the  storm  had  always  burst,  and  man 
had  found  that  man  had  not  changed,  save  in  ingenuity; 
that  his  heart  still  held  all  the  viciousness  of  the  years 
gone  by. 

The  twentieth  century  had  seemed  to  promise  the  frui- 
tion of  most  of  the  dreams  of  mankind.  Man  had  con- 
quered the  sea  and  the  depths  thereof;  he  had  conquered 
the  air  and  the  heights  thereof;  in  all  physical  ways  the 
lot  of  a  laborer  of  the  twentieth  century  was  more  com- 
fortable than  the  lot  of  a  noble  not  so  many  centuries 
ago. 

Disease  had  yielded  to  man's  study ;  education  was 
within  reach  of  the  humblest;  knowledge  was  no  longer 
locked  up  in  indecipherable  tomes  for  only  the  elect  to 
gain. 

And  then  had  come  the  Bloody  Years.  Men  stared  at 
the  spectacle  in  horror.  Nothing  that  barbarous  man  had 
imagined  could  compare  with  the  ferocity  of  the  second 
decade  of  the  twentieth  century.  Like  beasts  men  acted, 
and  like  beasts  men  thought.  No  longer  was  war  waged 
by  chosen  champions  against  other  champions.  It  was 
waged  nation  against  nation,  and  the  quality  of  mercy 
was  hurled  from  the  heart  of  man. 

It  mattered  not  on  whom  the  guilt  for  the  great 
debacle  rested.  The  guilty,  after  all,  were  men,  and  men 


262  THE  DAY  OF  FAITH 

must  share  the  burden  of  the  blame.  The  flower  of  nine- 
teen centuries  of  Christianity  opened,  and  its  petals 
poisoned  and  its  breath  was  the  breath  of  death. 

And  those  men  of  God  whose  voices  should  have  been 
raised  against  the  great  tragedy  cheered  on  the  combat- 
ants, and  who  may  find  fault  with  them?  They  were 
men  first  and  men  of  God  afterwards.  Man  looked  to 
God,  then  turned  to  his  suffering,  struggling  brother  and 
dismissed  God  from  his  thoughts,  the  while  he  aided  his 
own  blood  and  tissue. 

Men,  honorable,  gentle,  kindly  men,  faced  the  issue. 
Their  religion  taught  them  that  war  was  wrong;  but 
against  religion  was  pitted  the  unanswerable  argument: 
their  homes  were  threatened ;  dishonor  faced  their  wives ; 
destitution,  slavery,  menaced  their  children. 

High  up  to  heaven  went  the  cry  of  mankind.  Why  had 
religion  failed  the  world?  And  only  the  few  knew  the 
answer:  because  the  world  had  failed  religion. 

For  what  profit  is  there  in  lip  service  to  an  ideal  that 
does  not  rest  within  the  heart  ?  Religion  had  come  to  man 
as  a  gentle  master,  to  guide  him  on  the  right  path,  to  sup- 
port him  in  his  hour  of  tragedy.  But  man  had  disdained 
this  master,  had  bent  it  to  his  own  uses,  and  made  of  it 
a  servant,  and  the  servant  failed  him  in  his  hour  of  need. 

This  was  the  great  tragedy  of  the  Bloody  Years :  that 
men  were  brought  face  to  face  with  the  fact  that  there 
was  no  longer  hope.  For  only  the  hysterical  and  the 
gullible  believed  that  the  Bloody  Years  would  see  the  end 
of  warfare.  The  sane,  the  thoughtful,  witnessing  the 
tragedy,  shuddered  more  at  thought  of  the  future  war 
than  of  this  one  which  now  they  endured. 

Man  had  tried  reason  and  he  had  failed;  he  had  tried 
force  and  he  had  failed.  Brain  and  hand  for  untold  aeons 
he  had  used  to  combat  war.  And  brain  and  hand  had 
Served  him  ill. 


THE  DAY  OF  FAITH  263 

Vaguely,  before  the  Bloody  Years  had  burst  upon  him, 
he  had  talked  of  ideals,  of  the  growth  of  righteousness. 
He  knew  that  there  was  religion  in  the  world,  and  he 
hoped  that  this  religion  would  save  the  world  when  oc- 
casion came. 

And  religion  had  failed.  What,  then,  was  left?  Save 
to  prepare  for  the  next  war,  and  preparation  inevitably 
brought  that  next  war  nearer.  Yet  not  to  prepare  has- 
tened it  just  as  much.  Were  we,  then,  beasts  of  the  for- 
est, destined  inevitably  to  live  as  beasts  and  die  as 
beasts,  rending  one  another  to  the  death?  If  centuries 
of  study,  not  merely  of  science,  but  of  ethics,  had  brought 
only  the  Bloody  Years.  .  .  . 

Mountebanks  toured  the  world,  wearing  the  livery  of 
religion  but  preaching  the  gospel  of  intolerance.  A  world 
that  had  wearily  lifted  its  bruised  head  from  the  battle- 
field, a  world  that  had  seen  honor,  decency,  love,  goodness, 
—  all  these  trampled  in  the  mire  of  hate,  was  asked  to  be- 
lieve that  there  was  vital  wickedness  in  dancing,  in  card 
playing,  in  the  little  vices  that  make  misery  less  miserable. 

These  were  the  voices  that  were  raised  the  loudest  and 
heard  the  farthest. 

Yet  these  voices  had  been  raised  in  the  centuries  past, 
and  men  were  somewhat  wearied  of  their  clamor.  Was 
good  so  definite  a  thing  that  it  could  be  labeled  like  a 
can  of  fruit?  Was  evil  so  definite  that  it,  too,  could  be 
marked  and  set  upon  its  shelf?  And  was  there  not  some- 
thing almost  willfully  blind  in  the  attitude  of  those  who 
thought  to  censure  a  world  for  its  pettiness  and  yet  had 
no  remedy  to  offer  for  its  monumental  sins,  the  sins  of  the 
Bloody  Years? 

With  a  world  prostrate,  pleading  for  help,  could  re- 
ligion offer  nothing  better  than  the  scoldings  of  a  fish- 
wife? Was  that  the  mission  of  religion,  —  to  scold,  to 
berate,  to  find  fault  like  a  petulant  old  crone? 


THE  DAY  OF  FAITH 

Or  was  the  mission  of  religion  to  heal,  to  uplift  ?  Was 
not  true  religion  better  exemplified  by  the  Red  Cross  girl 
who  held  a  cigarette  to  the  dying  soldier's  lips  than  by  the 
cantankerous  man  who  denounced  the  evils  of  nicotine? 

The  world  had  never  asked  itself  these  questions  before. 
Individuals  had,  but  the  world  had  not.  The  world  had 
vaguely  believed  in  religion  and  never  analyzed  its  own 
emotions  toward  it.  But  now,  with  the  dawning  of  the 
Day  of  Faith,  the  world  asked  itself  these  questions. 

It  was  tired  of  the  charlatan  who  said  that  there  was 
but  one  road  to  salvation  and  that  was  his.  For  suddenly 
the  world  had  come  to  comprehend  that  while  there  was 
only  one  road  to  salvation,  it  had  many  names  marked 
upon  its  signposts.  The  names  were  different,  but  the 
road  was  the  same. 

Suddenly  men  wanted  a  religion  that  would  help  them 
here,  in  this  world,  and  not  merely  promise  them  rewards 
in  another  world.  Hope  had  died  in  the  hearts  of  men. 
But  drowning  men  catch  at  straws.  Perhaps,  in  the 
creed  of  Bland  Hendricks,  in  the  plan  proposed  by 
Michael  Anstell,  there  might  be  something  more  than  a 
straw ;  there  might  be  a  raft  of  substance. 

So  it  dawned,  the  Day  of  Faith. 

Michael  Anstell  had  known  the  groping  desire,  blinded 
by  misery  and  folly,  that  still  existed  in  the  hearts  of  men. 
Hope  was  dead,  but  a  wish  was  there.  And  out  of  this 
wish  might  spring  a  new  hope.  But  he  had  underesti- 
mated the  strength,  the  passionate  virility  of  this  wish. 
He  had  thought  that  awaking  the  world  might  be  a  mat- 
ter of  years ;  instead,  it  was  a  matter  of  months. 

Almost  dazed  by  the  accomplishment  of  his  own  plan, 
by  the  success  of  this  first  step  in  the  most  monumental 
scheme  ever  conceived  by  a  human  being,  he  watched  the 
crowds  assemble  in  the  streets  of  New  York.  From  his 
high  office  window  he  looked  down  upon  the  business  sec- 


THE  DAY  OF  FAITH  265 

tion;  like  some  great  eagle  he  stared  down  upon  the 
throngs. 

It  was  noon  in  New  York.  For  to  the  American  city 
had  been  given  the  honor  of  choosing  its  own  hour,  and  it 
had  chosen  midday. 

Midday  in  New  York.  In  London  it  was  early  after- 
noon. In  San  Francisco,  it  was  forenoon.  In  Japan 
it  was  dawn.  In  the  heart  of  China  the  stars  seemed 
to  look  down,  not  coldly,  but  warmly,  upon  a  rapt  and 
awed  multitude.  In  Africa,  in  So  /th  America,  in  all  the 
world  at  the  same  time,  as  the  chimes  of  Trinity  pealed 
out  the  noon  hour,  the  population  of  the  world,  drawn 
from  its  labor  or  its  slumbers  by  the  magical  propaganda 
of  Michael  Anstell,  lifted  its  eyes  to  heaven. 

Not  all  the  world  entered  into  the  great  devotional 
exercises.  There  were  the  lame,  and  the  bedridden,  and 
the  aged.  There  were  those,  too,  who  still  sneered  at  the 
great  plan,  who  laughed  at  the  simple  creed,  who  re- 
fused to  make  fools  of  themselves,  as  they  termed  it. 
But  they  were  few,  even  in  the  barbarous  countries.  For 
the  Day  of  Faith  was  a  fashion.  Money  and  propa- 
ganda and  the  wish  in  the  hearts  of  men  had  made  it  so. 
And  there  are  few  who  deny  conformation  to  the  die- 
tales  of  good  form. 

To  refuse  to  take  part  in  the  great  devotion  was  to 
admit  that  one  did  not  even  wish,  that  one  cared  naught 
for  the  memory  of  the  so-recent  Bloody  Years.  Only 
Michael  Anstell  had  believed  that  it  could  be  done,  but 
he  had  not  misread  the  hearts  of  men. 

Seven  million  people  thronged  the  streets  of  greater 
New  York.  As  Trinity  chimed,  other  churches  took  up 
the  solemn  toll  of  the  hours,  telling  each  neighborhood 
that  the  hour  of  devotion  had  struck.  And,  suddenly,  gay- 
ety  died  out  of  the  hearts  of  the  crowd.  It  had  been 
noisy,  shuffling  of  foot,  coughing  with  embarrassment. 


266  THE  DAY  OF  FAITH 

And  all  over  the  world,  some  beneath  the  sun  and  some 
beneath  the  stars,  almost  a  billion  people  looked  to  heaven. 

Fashionable  Londoner  and  wan-faced  cockney ;  Indian 
prince  and  famine-wrecked  Hindoo ;  high-class  Mandarin 
and  Chinese  rice  farmer;  Congo  serf  and  his  master; 
Dyak  head-hunter  and  Christian  missionary ;  the  clothed 
and  the  naked ;  the  fed  and  the  famished ;  the  strong  and 
the  weak.  From  a  billion  throats  came  the  mighty  cry: 

"  My  neighbor  is  perfect !  " 

This  was  the  faith  of  a  broken  world.  It  still  had  its 
gods,  its  creeds,  its  forms.  But  above  them  all,  for  one 
moment,  it  had  enshrined  the  form  of  man. 

"  Love  thy  neighbor  as  thyself,"  the  Bible  had  taught. 
That  injunction,  in  one  phraseology  or  another,  could  be 
found  in  almost  every  religion.  But  the  Day  of  Faith 
had  taken  more  than  this  injunction.  For  the  Hendricks 
creed  meant,  if  it  meant  anything  at  all,  that  one  loved 
his  neighbor,  not  as  himself,  but  better  than  himself. 

"  Greater  love  than  this  hath  no  man :  that  he  layeth 
down  his  life  for  his  friend.'* 

This  also  had  the  Bible  taught,  and  from  this  had 
Hendricks  taken  his  creed.  For  life  is  the  most  precious 
thing  on  earth,  and  if  we  esteem  our  neighbor's  life  as 
more  precious  than  our  own,  we  must  love  him  more  than 
we  do  ourselves. 

There  were  millions  who  had  heard  the  eternal  roar 
of  the  cannon  in  the  Bloody  Years.  But  this  was  a  greater 
clamor  that  assailed  the  heavens,  as  though  to  force  them 
apart  and  make  them  disclose  the  mysteries,  ignorance 
of  which  had  kept  man  the  beast  that  he  had  been.  Seven 
million  voices  in  New  York;  and  across  the  rivers  on 
either  side  of  Manhattan,  Long  Island  and  New  Jersey 
added  their  vocal  prayer.  And  New  York  State,  and  New 
England,  the  South,  the  Middle  West,  —  one  hundred  and 
ten  millions 


THE  DAY  OF  FAITH 

Men  had  prayed  in  multitudes  before,  beseeching  their 
gods  to  spare  them  from  impending  peril,  from  present 
famine  and  disease.  But  this  was  not  a  multitude ;  it  was 
the  World. 

From  its  aching  heart,  from  its  great  despair,  from 
its  overwhelming  desolation,  from  its  reeking  past,  from 
the  stench  of  the  present,  and  from  the  untold  horror  of 
the  future,  mankind  asked  deliverance.  But  it  did  not 
ask  it  of  its  gods.  It  asked  it  of  itself. 

Its  gods  had  failed  it;  its  creeds,  its  religions,  had 
mocked  it  in  the  day  of  travail ;  so  now  it  spoke  to  the 
noblest  thing  man  knew  of :  the  heart  of  man. 

In  a  thousand  tongues  the  prayer  was  uttered.  And 
even  as  it  was  cried  aloft,  men  knew  that  it  was  not  a 
prayer ;  it  was  a  triumphant  declaration  of  belief ;  it  was 
a  challenge  to  the  old  gods  of  hatred,  of  envy,  of  malice 
and  greed. 

It  was  a  scorn  for  the  past,  a  defiance  of  the  future, 
and  a  greeting  of  the  present.  It  gave  the  lie  to  the 
old  prejudices,  the  old  beliefs  that  man  can  be  saved 
only  by  some  aid  from  without.  Man  could  be  saved  by 
himself,  and  by  himself  only,  and  suddenly,  inspiration- 
».Uy,  man  knew  that  this  was  so. 

Trains  speeding  across  the  desert ;  ships  ploughing  the 
oceans ;  from  the  cars  and  from  the  decks  of  these  came 
the  mighty  statement,  the  statement  that  tore  down  the 
old  barriers  between  man  and  man. 

In  the  sunshine  of  Ohio  and  the  blizzard  of  South 
America  men  stood,  animated  by  one  common  purpose, 
aroused  by  one  wish. 

In  his  office,  Michael  Anstell  had  been  pacing  to  and 
fro.  But  as  the  chimes  of  Trinity  struck  his  ear,  he 
walked  to  the  window  and  leaned  out.  Beneath  him  was 
the  crowd,  weaving,  moving,  restless,  a  moment  ago,  but 


268  THE  DAY  OF  FAITH 

now  smitten  into  silence  by  the  notes  from  the  church 
tower. 

Suddenly  hats  were  removed ;  he  had  been  looking  down 
upon  a  dark  mass  that  suddenly  became  white  as  faces 
were  upturned.  And  then  the  great  roar  of  their  voices 
smote  him  in  the  face;  it  seemed  as  though  the  immense 
building  shook  in  the  gale  that  their  breath  might  have 
created. 

Indistinctly  the  woids  came  up  to  him,  blurred  by  the 
million-tongued  utterance,  but  carrying  a  bell-like  note  of 
triumph,  as  might  the  voice  of  the  slave  when  he  greeted 
his  freedom.  For  was  not  the  world  free?  Had  not  the 
shackles  been  cast  off  already? 

Men  knew  the  answer,  and  it  was  affirmative.  They 
had  not  known  that  answer  one  second  before  the  great 
affirmation  had  been  made.  But  the  heavens  had  not 
hurled  back  the  echo  of  man's  challenge  to  the  old  gods 
before  the  world  knew  that  the  great  change  was  here, 
and  the  great  change  must  mean  freedom. 

For  suddenly,  in  the  hush  that  followed  the  great  affir- 
mation, men  knew  vaguely,  yet  certainly,  what  they  had 
done.  They  had  slain  the  old  beliefs ;  man  had  conquered 
his  only  enemy  —  man ! 

Michael  Anstell  gripped  at  the  window  sill;  he  was 
shaken  by  that  tremendous  fervor  that  rose  from  the 
ground  below  like  some  living,  tangible  thing,  that  took 
his  shoulders,  gripped  them,  and  held  him,  powerless  to 
resist. 

A  film  seemed  to  pass  over  his  eyes,  but  upon  its  blurry 
surface  were  painted  vague  images  that  he  could  not 
recognize,  could  not  understand. 

And  then  the  film  passed,  and  his  ears  were  likewise 
keen,  and  he  heard  a  million  voices,  and  they  shrieked 
his  name.  Out  upon  a  balcony,  hundreds  of  feet  above 
the  ground,  so  high  that  he  was  only  a  speck  to  those 


THE  DAY  OF  FAITH  269 

tiny  figures  below  him,  he  stepped.  He  no  longer  shook, 
and  his  eyes  were  hard. 

They  roared  his  name.  Was  he  not  the  man  who  had 
made  possible,  feasible,  this  marvelous  thing  which  had 
happened  to  mankind,  which  mankind  did  not  understand, 
comprehended  as  vaguely  as  a  child  the  sustenance  which 
its  mother  gives  it? 

Was  he  not  the  man  whose  great  love  for  his  fellow 
man  had  inspired  him,  in  the  face  of  any  obstacle,  to  per- 
severe in  a  plan  which  would  bring  untold  joy  to  all  the 
world? 

He  was.  And  so  they  hailed  him,  and  cheered  him,  and 
blessed  him.  Up  to  him  came  waves  of  that  perfect  love 
which  children  give  to  their  parents,  if  so  be  the  parents 
are  kind. 

And  not  only  here.  All  over  the  world  he  was  being 
hailed.  For  instantly,  though  not  clearly,  men  knew 
that  the  Great  Change,  the  Change  that  generations  had 
dimly  hoped  for,  had  come  to  the  heart  of  man.  What 
would  be  the  material  effect  of  the  Change,  men  had  not 
yet  had  time  to  ponder.  They  only  knew  that  it  had 
come,  that  they  were  free  from  the  old  gods.  This  they 
believed. 

Only  Michael  Anstell,  receiving  their  adulation,  knew 
that  they  believed  in  a  falsehood. 


CHAPTER    XXVII 

FOR  only  a  moment,  though,  did  the  world  render  obei- 
sance to  Michael  Anstell.  Since  the  beginning  of  time 
men  had  been  blinded  by  half-truths.  Rarely  had  honor 
been  given  where  honor  was  due.  But  now,  suddenly,  men 
saw  the  truth.  It  was  not  Michael  Anstell  who  had 
brought  about  the  great  change,  great  and  honorable 
though  the  world  considered  the  part  that  he  had  played. 

It  was  Jane  Maynard  to  whom  the  world  owed  this 
ecstasy  which  had  come  to  it.  She  was  the  pioneer,  the 
Joan  of  Arc  who  had  heard  voices  and  heeded  them. 
Behind  her,  of  course,  was  the  martyred  memory  of  Bland 
Hendricks :  he  first  had  had  the  great  idea  and  rendered 
it  articulate.  But  Jane  Maynard  had  done  more  than 
believe  in  the  Hendricks  creed;  she  had  preached  it  to 
the  world.  Always,  until  to-day,  men  had  placed  money 
above  the  things  of  the  heart,  but  to-day  men  placed  the 
things  of  the  heart  first. 

And  so  suddenly  the  name  of  Jane  Maynard  was  cried 
aloud.  Not  merely  by  the  throngs  gathered  in  down- 
town New  York,  but  by  the  throngs  gathered  all  over 
the  world.  If  it  had  been  love  that  had  been  rendered, 
in  that  first  ecstatic  moment,  to  Michael  Anstell,  it  was 
adoration  that  flowed  forth  to  the  girl. 

In  front  of  the  Foundation  on  Carey  Street,  with  Tom 
Barnett  and  John  Anstell,  Jane  Maynard  had  uttered 
the  great  affirmation.  Carey  Street,  from  wall  to  wall, 
was  one  solid  mass  of  people.  These  were  the  poor,  these 
were  the  people  who  knew,  from  first  hand,  the  gentle 
kindliness  of  Jane  Maynard  and  had  learned  to  love  her 


THE  DAY  OF  FAITH  271 

for  herself,  not  for  the  idea  which  she  had  promulgated. 

These,  too,  like  all  the  others,  first  cried  the  name  of 
Michael  Anstell.  Then  came  reaction  from  the  tribute 
men  always  pay  to  power  and  place;  they  paid  their 
tribute  now  to  something  greater  than  the  temporal  power 
of  man ;  they  paid  it  to  the  eternal  power  of  the  spirit. 

Nothing  like  this  had  Jane  expected.  Indeed,  had  she 
been  asked,  on  the  morning  of  the  Day  of  Faith,  exactly 
what  she  had  expected,  she  could  not  have  answered  co- 
herently. She  had  made  no  careful  analysis  of  world 
conditions,  as  had  Michael  Anstell.  She  had  not  studied 
the  temper  of  the  world,  placed  a  canny  finger  upon  its 
pulse,  as  had  Anstell.  She  knew,  instinctively,  that  man 
potentially  was  good;  that  was  enough  for  her. 

She  had  come  to  believe  in  the  Hendricks  creed.  She 
did  not  analyze  it ;  had  not  asked  what  would  be  the 
effect  if  all  the  world  believed;  the  thing  was  too  tre- 
mendous, too  terrific.  She  let  Anstell  and  others  use  the 
word  "  millennium  "  in  her  hearing  without  asking  what 
they  meant.  She  had  no  more  idea  than  any  one  else  in  the 
world  what  a  millennium  would  mean. 

For  centuries  men  had  talked  of  the  millennium,  but 
when  asked  to  express  a  concrete  idea  of  it,  they  had 
failed.  No  more  than  one  could  comprehend  eternity,  or 
limitless  space,  could  one  comprehend  universal  goodness. 

But  now  the  world  knew  that  a  millennium  had  come  to 
it.  It  did  not  comprehend  how  or  why.  For  the  world,  in 
the  moments  following  the  great  affirmation,  was  like  a 
sleeper  that  has  just  awakened,  too  dazed  to  know  whether 
or  not  it  still  wandered  in  the  land  of  unreality. 

Soon  the  world  would  begin  to  think,  to  understand ;  the 
amazing  evidence  would  flow  in  from  all  quarters  of  the 
world,  evidence  that  would  stagger  humanity,  would  make 
its  burden  of  joy  almost  too  poignant  to  be  borne.  But 
now  it  did  no  thinking;  it  asked  no  evidence,  no  proof  of 


272  THE  DAY  OF  FAITH 

the  effect  of  a  new  idea  in  the  world.  It  was  like  a  child 
that  on  Christmas  morning  has  just  glimpsed  the  tree 
with  sleep-blurred  eyes.  The  child  knows  that  all  en- 
trancing things  are  hanging  from  the  tinseled  boughs, 
but  in  the  first  gasp  of  anticipatory  delight  it  asks  no 
questions,  postpones  its  investigations. 

Before  the  mighty  blast  of  triumphant  applause,  that 
almost  wordless  vocal  wave  of  affection,  Jane  turned  pale. 
Never,  at  any  time,  had  she  desired  publicity,  place.  To 
be  liked,  even  loved,  that  was  wonderful.  But  to  be  a 
person  set  apart,  for  that  she  did  not  care.  She  had 
undergone  the  publicity  of  the  past  months  because  men 
whom  she  considered  wiser  than  herself  had  thought  it 
necessary.  But  she  had  thought  that  when  the  Day  of 
Faith  had  arrived,  men  would  dismiss  her  from  their 
minds,  that  the  Hendricks  creed  would  hold  their  thoughts, 
perhaps.  Certainly  that  Jane  Maynard  would  hold  their 
attention  was  not  in  her  mind. 

It  almost  frightened  her,  this  cry  from  the  mob.  What 
had  she  done  to  deserve  it?  The  past  came  swiftly 
through  her  mind.  And  suddenly  remorse  for  the  fate 
of  Bland  Hendricks  left  her.  She  realized  that  some- 
thing had  happened  to  the  world,  something  of  great  po- 
tential good.  Had  it  not  been  for  the  martyrdom  of  Hen- 
dricks, that  something  might  never  have  come  about. 
Perhaps  she  was  just  some  part  of  the  plan  of  a  Power 
far  above  the  power  of  men. 

She  was  sane.  To  carry  forever  in  her  mind,  in  her 
heart,  the  bitter  memory  of  Bland  Hendricks*  tragic  end 
would  have  made  her  insane.  Indeed,  her  mind  had  failed 
her,  until  she  had  begun  to  adopt  the  Hendricks  creed\ 
Men  die  to  set  each  other  free.  She  could  no  longer  feel 
regretful  for  the  death  of  a  man  whose  dying  had  brought 
about  so  glorious  a  thing.  Not  that  she  could  ever  jus- 
tify her  action  on  the  night  when  the  mob  had  surged 


THE  DAY  OF  FAITH  273 

across  Hendricks'  lawn.  But  somehow  a  weight  seemed 
lifted  from  her ;  in  a  measure,  so  far  as  she  could,  she  had 
paid  —  she  hoped  she  had. 

The  mob  seemed  to  move  toward  her.  She  was  not 
frightened,  and  yet  she  wished  to  be  away  from  them,  to 
think.  Through  those  who  had  been  standing  between 
her  and  the  door  to  the  Foundation,  Tom  Barnett  and 
John  Anstell  forced  a  way. 

Men  and  women  caught  at  her  clothing;  to  touch  her 
seemed  the  wish  of  the  thousands  ;  sobs  that  were  strangely 
triumphant  sounded  upon  her  ears.  She  passed  through 
the  door  and  in  a  moment  it  closed  behind  her. 

In  the  hall  the  two  young  men  and  the  girl  stared  at 
each  other. 

"  You've  put  it  over,"  said  Barnett.  His  voice  was 
husky,  and  his  eyes  glittered  with  excitement.  "  The 
greatest  thing  in  the  world's  history  —  and  you  put  it 
over." 

He  took  her  hand  in  his,  forgetful,  it  seemed,  of  the 
presence  of  John  Anstell,  her  fiance.  He  lifted  her  hand 
to  his  lips  and  kissed  it.  Then  he  stepped  back  and 
stared  at  her;  for  the  first  time  Jane  fully  realized  that 
he  loved  her,  that  his  love  was  a  tremendous  thing,  as 
great  as  that  which  John  Anstell  bore  her,  and  the  more 
impressive,  perhaps,  because  he  seemed  to  understand 
that  it  was  hopeless,  because  he  asked  nothing  for  him- 
self, wished  only  to  give. 

She  colored  faintly. 

"  The  world  has  put  it  over  —  not  I,"  she  said. 

"  It  doesn't  matter,"  said  young  Anstell.  "  It's  done." 
He,  too,  took  Jane's  hand,  and  Barnett  turned  away. 

The  thoughts  of  a  billion  people  were  now  concentrated 
on  Jane;  she  seemed  to  feel  the  waves  of  a  world's  men- 
tality beating  upon  her.  Suddenly  she  was  exhausted. 
The  color  left  her  cheeks,  even  her  lips.  She  seemed  to 


274  THE  DAY  OF  FAITH 

sway  slightly,  and  with  a  cry  John  put  his  arm  about 
her.  But  she  managed  to  smile. 

"I'm  just  —  worn  out,"  she  muttered.  "To  be 
alone.  ..." 

Yet  from  the  stairway  she  smiled  and  waved  them  a 
brave  hand.  They  both  stood  staring  after  her  until  she 
turned  at  the  top  of  the  stairs  and  was  gone  from  their 
sight. 

Her  limbs  felt  suddenly  leaden  as  she  passed  from  their 
vision.  To  have  held  an  idea  for  months,  to  have  con- 
centrated one's  thoughts  on  one  thing  alone,  and  to  have 
given  not  merely  one's  mentality,  but  one's  heart:  this  is 
the  exhausting  thing.  Upon  her  knees  by  the  bed  in  her 
room  she  fell.  She  uttered  no  conscious  prayer,  yet 
from  her  overflowing  heart  came  murmurs.  A  great  wave 
of  happiness  engulfed  her.  It  was,  at  the  moment,  en- 
gulfing all  the  world.  It  was  the  third,  the  final  battle, 
in  the  conquest  of  the  world. 

Outside,  on  Carey  Street,  the  two  men  looked  at  the 
mob.  It  seemed,  this  street,  like  some  holiday  crowd, 
making  merry.  The  faces  of  children  were  on  the  shoul- 
ders of  men.  A  peace,  a  gentleness  that  passed  compre- 
hension, seemed  to  hold  the  people.  One  little  thing  Tom 
Barnett  noticed  as  he  stood  on  the  stoop :  a  huckster  from 
his  cart  was  giving  fruit  to  children.  It  meant  little, 
perhaps,  and  yet,  equally  perhaps,  it  meant  much. 

They  parted  at  the  foot  of  the  stoop,  parted  with 
warm  handclasps.  Young  Anstell  had  read  Barnett's 
secret.  Yesterday  he  might  have  been  jealous;  to-day 
he  was  only  sorry  that  unhappiness  might  visit  the  pub- 
licity man. 

For  himself,  he  dreamed,  as  he  pushed  his  way  through 
the  friendly  throng,  of  the  day,  now  almost  at  hand,  when 
Jane  should  be  his.  She  had  belonged  to  the  great  idea, 


THE  DAY  OF  FAITH  275 

to  the  world,  for  the  past  months,  but  now  she  should 
belong  to  him. 

He  reached  downtown  Broadway;  here  the  mob,  with 
none  of  that  rough  playfulness  that  characterizes  the  usual 
mob,  seemed  aimlessly  walking  up  and  down,  with  no 
apparent  purpose,  yet  rapt  of  expression.  Suddenly  a 
roar  began  farther  downtown ;  it  came  uptown ;  the 
ecstatic  cheering  of  a  world  gone  mad  with  joy. 

For  Michael  Anstell  had  left  his  office  and  entered 
his  limousine  on  his  way  to  his  home.  The  mob  had 
cheered  him  once,  then  rendered  tribute  to  Jane.  Now, 
seeing  the  backer  of  the  great  plan  at  close  range,  it 
cheered  him  again. 

Slowly,  impeded  by  the  throng  that  did  him  honor,  the 
big  car  moved  uptown.  Like  the  progress  of  an  em- 
peror, like  the  progress  through  the  streets  of  Europe 
of  that  American  who,  at  the  end  of  the  Bloody  Years, 
had  preached  a  message  to  the  world,  was  the  progress 
of  Michael  Anstell. 

For  a  moment  to-day  he  had  been  definitely  first  in 
the  hearts  of  the  world.  Now  he  was  second,  would 
never  be  first  again.  But  that  second  place  was  so 
infinitely  higher  than  ever  man  had  held  before  that 
Michael  Anstell  need  not  have  been  jealous  of  Jane 
Maynard. 

John,  wedged  against  a  wall  by  the  cheering  multitude, 
saw  his  father  pass.  He  felt  a  thrill  of  pride.  The  world 
had  hated  this  man,  his  father,  in  the  days  gone  by.  To- 
day it  recognized  his  greatness,  his  goodness.  He  could 
not  hail  his  father,  but  he  left  Broadway  and  walked 
uptown  on  a  less  frequented  street,  where  progress  was 
not  so  slow.  He  wanted  to  talk  to  his  father,  to  con- 
gratulate him  on  his  great,  his  miraculous  achievement. 
To  make  a  whole  world  affirm  its  love,  its  trust,  its  faith 
in  its  fellow  man.  In  the  mind  of  John  Anstell  it  was 


276  THE  DAY  OF  FAITH 

not  Jane  Maynard  who  had  made  to-day  possible ;  it  was 
Michael  Anstell. 

Tight-lipped,  grave  of  visage,  yet  in  his  eyes  a  gleam 
of  triumph,  Michael  Anstell  made  his  glorious  way  to  his 
Madison  Avenue  mansion.  Through  the  milling  thou- 
sands —  who,  oddly  enough,  never  crushed  e'ach  other  in 
their  rapid  movement  —  he  made  his  way.  He  received 
an  ovation,  as  he  entered  his  home,  such  as  no  man  in 
history  had  ever  received  before,  that  had  been  exceeded, 
in  all  time,  only  by  the  ovation  that  had  been  given  Jane 
Maynard  on  Carey  Street.  He  held  the  proudest  position 
ever  attained  by  a  man.  For  he  was  higher  in  the  hearts 
of  the  world  than  any  ruler  had  ever  been ;  than  any  leader 
of  a  creed.  Second  only  to  Jane  Maynard.  He  recog- 
nized this ;  he  had  noted  the  difference  between  the  way 
in  which  his  name  was  cried  and  that  of  Jane  Maynard. 
He  was  human ;  she,  to  the  world,  was  something  angelic. 

But  he  had  dreamed  a  dream ;  the  most  tremendous 
dream  that  had  ever  entered  the  mind  of  man,  and  Jane 
Maynard's  place  in  the  world  meant  nothing  to  him.  The 
world  might  place  Jane  Maynard  first,  but  Michael 
Anstell  cared  nothing  for  the  name;  the  game  alone  inter- 
ested him. 

And  he  had  won  his  game;  vision  and  courage  had  not 
deceived  or  failed  him.  The  greatest  game,  the  greatest 
stake  for  which  man  had  ever  gambled  a  fortune !  What 
were  the  paltry  millions  that  he  had  spent?  Nothing! 
He  had  read  the  heart  of  the  world  and  read  it  aright. 

Yet  the  gleam  in  his  eyes  was  not  the  gleam  in  the 
eyes  of  the  rest  of  the  world.  So  might  the  eyes  of 
Satan  have  gleamed  when  the  angels  fell.  .  .  . 

In  his  great  library  he  found  Surmase,  Heilbrun,  El- 
bertson,  Kynaston  and  Blodgett,  those  men  who  had 
joined  so  willingly,  at  his  behest,  in  the  backing  of  the 
great  plan.  They  were  in  that  exalted  state  in  which 


THE  DAY  OF  FAITH  277 

statesmen  are  found  when  news  has  come  of  a  great 
military  victory. 

Dramatically,  Anstell  paused  in  the  doorway.  Surmase 
lifted  his  heavy  voice.  He  was  a  hard-bitten  citizen,  was 
Surmase.  Yet  he  had  backed  the  great  plan.  At  first  he 
had  entered  into  the  plan  because  he  had  thought  the 
world  needed  something  like  this.  Later  he  had  re- 
mained in  it  because  he  had  come  to  believe. 

"  Michael,  "  he  said,  "  you  have  conquered  the  world.  " 

Into  AnstelPs  eyes  came  back  the  gleam  that  had  been 
there  the  past  hours,  that  he  had  put  from  them  as  he 
faced  these  friends  and  fellow  workers. 

"  Not  I,  Surmase,  "  he  replied.  "  The  world  has  con- 
quered itself.  " 

Surmase  seemed  suddenly  to  yield  to  weakness ;  he  col- 
lapsed in  a  chair. 

"  Do  you  realize  what's  happened,  Michael?  "  he 
asked. 

"  Does  any  one?  "  demanded  Anstell. 

"  Not  yet,"  said  Heilburn  excitedly,  "  but  —  we're  be- 
ginning to !  Anstell,  this  is  the  end  of  war,  the  end  of 
greed,  the  end  of  hate " 

"  If  it  lasts,  "  said  Anstell. 

He  could  have  bitten  his  tongue  the  moment  the  speech 
was  uttered.  For  the  others  stared  at  him  as  though 
shocked. 

"  I  mean,  "  he  said,  "  that  we  must  hold  to  the  creed.  " 

"  Of  course,  "  said  Kynaston  carelessly.  "  As  if,  "  and 
he  laughed,  "  the  world  will  give  up  anything  like  this, 
once  it  has  known  it.  " 

He,  too,  sat  down,  passing  his  hand  across  his  fore- 
head. But  his  lips  were  curled  in  a  gentle  smile. 

It  was  all  right  for  the  multitude,  the  ignorant,  but 
these  men,  —  these  were  his  fellows  in  the  world  of  power 
and  dominion.  Anstell  again  felt  something  clutch  at  his 


278  THE  DAY  OF  FAITH 

heart,  but  it  was  not  a  frightening,  an  awe-inspiring  gripi 
such  as  had  come  to  him  in  his  office  building.  This 
was  the  purest  joy. 

He  got  rid  of  them ;  he  had  to,  or  shriek  in  their  faces. 
For  he  must  be  alone,  alone  to  gloat.  He  had  guessed 
correctly  the  tired  spirit  of  the  world.  But  men  like 
Surmase  and  Kynaston  and  the  others !  It  was  too  un- 
believable !  In  their  minds  he  had  expected  to  find  doubt, 
cynicism.  The  whole  world  had  gone  mad,  insane!  He 
had  expected  the  people,  the  great  bulk  of  them,  to  be 
gulled,  as  always  they  had  been  gulled.  But  to  find  the 
great  leaders  of  business  and  finance  in  the  same  ecstatic 
mood  as  the  common  herd.  .  .  . 

Alone,  in  his  study,  looking  down  at  the  backwash  of 
the  crowd  that  passed  by  his  home  to  look  at  it  as 
though  it  were  a  shrine,  Michael  Anstell  faced  the  facts. 

A  billion  voices  had  been  raised  to  Heaven,  had  uttered 
the  same  speech,  professed  the  same  great  faith.  And 
the  very  roar  of  those  voices,  the  very  effect  of  the  con- 
centrated thought  of  the  billion,  had  staggered  the  world. 
It  had  done  more  than  that ;  it  had  hypnotized  the  world. 

Michael  Anstell  saw  that.  And  seeing,  his  joy  became 
tempered  with  caution.  He  had  expected  to  find  a  world 
changed;  but  a  world  transformed  was  beyond  his  ex- 
pectations. He  had  expected  much,  but  had  achieved  all! 

One  thought  had  sent  men  to  war;  one  thought  was 
sending  men  to  peace  now.  One  thought  had  made  men 
hate;  one  thought  now  made  them  love. 

If  it  were  true;  if  it  should  last. — Why  not?  He  had 
expected  not  this,  but  something  akin  to  it.  His  faith 
had  never  failed;  he  had  read  his  destiny  months  ago, 
when  the  great  scheme  had  leaped  into  his  mind.  Should 
he  doubt  his  own  triumph  now? 

He  walked  to  the  window  and  looked  at  the  crowd. 
Slowly  his  lips  curled  in  a  sneer. 


THE  DAY  OF  FAITH  279 

The  fools!  The  blind  idiots!  To  think  their  neigh- 
bors perfect !  Laughter  that  was  almost  hysterical  burst 
from  his  lips.  If  Surmase  and  Kynaston  and  Blodgett 
believed;  if  these  hard-headed  men  had  been  engulfed  in 
the  wave  of  auto-hypnosis  that  had  swept  over  the  world, 
—  why  then,  every  one  must  believe.  That  is,  every  one 
save  Michael  Anstell. 

The  only  man  in  the  world  who  possessed  his  common 
sense!  A  sane,  shrewd,  calculating  man,  in  the  midst 
of  a  billion  mentally  stupefied  half-wits.  Idiots  who 
thought  that  anything  counted  save  a  man's  possessions. 
Fools,  dolts,  maniacs ! 

And  yet,  while  he  characterized  them  thus,  strange 
things  were  happening  in  the  world.  Men  had  uttered 
the  great  affirmation.  And  a  moment  later  even  those  who 
had  not  believed  accepted  it  as  fact.  So  mighty  was 
the  power  of  the  mind.  For  if  one  mind  may  influence 
one  other  mind,  what  may  a  million  minds  do  ?  And  her$ 
were  a  billion  minds  that  had  uttered  the  great  affirma- 
tion. 

Hypnosis  or  faith  ?  The  semblance  of  truth,  or  the  truth 
itself?  What  did  it  matter?  The  world  had  been  reborn, 
and  a  thousand  miracles,  real  miracles,  miracles  of  man's 
faith  in  man,  were  happening  ah1  over  the  world. 

And  only  Michael  Anstell  knew  that  the  miracles  were 
not  real.  The  world  stood  on  the  heavens,  but  Michael 
Anstell  stood  in  hell.  The  truth  of  a  billion  was  pitted 
against  the  falsehood  of  one,  and  who  yet  has  gauged  the 
power  of  a  lie? 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

THE  conquest  of  the  world ! 

Surmase  had  told  Michael  Anstell  that  he  had  con- 
quered the  world.  Anstell  had  replied  that  the  world 
had  conquered  itself.  Each  had  spoken  in  the  hyperbole 
that  excitement  induced.  Each  knew,  with  all  the  Avorld, 
that  sometlimg  had  happened,  but  it  was  not  until  next 
morning  that  they,  or  the  rest  of  the  world,  understood 
the  extent  of  the  happening. 

Indeed,  even  then,  the  amazing  nature  of  the  events 
that  had  occurred  could  not  be  comprehended  in  a  moment. 
Even  Michael  Anstell,  alert,  keen,  incredulous,  animated 
by  a  motive  that  had  been  born  in  contempt  and  nurtured 
in  greed,  could  hardly  believe  that  his  great  plan  had 
come  to  this  tremendous  fruition. 

For  the  world  was  not  changed;  it  was  remade! 

For  centuries  men  had  been  speculating  on  the  relation 
between  mind  and  matter.  A  great  church  had  sprung 
into  being,  and  millions  clung  to  its  tenets,  and  its  tenets 
maintained  that  mind  ruled  matter. 

But  not  merely  emotionally,  not  merely  spiritually,  had 
men  speculated.  Science,  cold  and  exacting,  had  been 
striving  to  establish  the  exact  relation  between  mind  and 
matter.  Cunning  machines,  which  could  measure  emo- 
tions by  their  physical  results,  had  been  invented.  The 
time  was  not  far  distant,  men  claimed,  when  the  guilt  or 
innocence  of  a  criminal  would  be  established  by  ma- 
chinery. 

The  sorcery  of  yesterday  was  the  commonplace  of 
to-day.  Fakers  and  charlatans  traveled  the  entertainment 


THE  DAY  OF  FAITH  281 

houses  of  the  world,  mystifying  their  audiences  by  exhibi- 
tions of  the  apparently  supernatural.  Tricksters,  yes ! 

But  a  world  had  nevertheless  come  to  know  that 
whether  or  not  mind  could  affect  matter,  it  surely  could 
affect  another  mind.  And  that  minds  could  be  affected 
in  the  mass,  not  merely  in  the  individual,  had  been  proved 
during  the  Bloody  Years,  when  whole  communities  had 
caught  certain  fervors  and  been  lost  to  reason. 

Not  that  this  was  anything  new.  The  Crusades  had 
taught  certain  lessons  concerning  mass  humanity ;  before 
them  they  had  been  taught,  learned  —  and  forgotten. 

History  presented  an  endless  succession  of  men  who  had 
imposed  their  wills  upon  peoples,  until  their  followers  for- 
got the  imposition,  so  whole-heartedly  did  they  adopt  the 
idea  handed  to  them. 

When  one  single  man,  upon  a  platform,  professed  to 
impose  his  mind  upon  the  mind  of  the  subject  seated 
supinely  before  him,  men  called  it  hypnotism.  And  so 
much  fraud  existed  in  these  demonstrations  that  few  be- 
lieved at  all  in  their  occasional  sincerity. 

But  when  one  man  carefully  and  shrewdly  deflected  the 
minds  of  many  along  a  certain  channel,  men  had  not 
called  it  hypnotism.  Nor  was  it,  as  hypnosis  is  generally 
understood.  But  that  it  sometimes  was  an  auto-hypnosis, 
a  self-deception,  scientists  had  begun  to  understand.  Too 
many  thousands  of  authentic  cases,  of  sane  communities 
gone  mad,  existed  to  permit  of  doubt  of  this  thing  called 
self-hypnosis. 

And  what  we  call  facts  are  arrived  at  only  by  a  process 
of  mass-hypnosis.  Centuries  ago  it  was  a  fact  that  the 
earth  stood  still  and  the  sun  revolved  around  it.  To-day 
it  is  a  fact  that  the  earth  revolves  around  the  sun. 
Scientists  have  disproved  the  old  fact  and  proved  the 
new  one.  Yet,  in  those  older  centuries,  scientists  had 
amply  demonstrated  the  old  fact.  Is  it  not  possible  that 


282  THE  DAY  OF  FAITH 

some  scientist  yet  unborn  will  deny,  with  irrefutable 
proofs,  the  facts  that  we  accept  to-day? 

Let,  then,  enough  people  believe  in  a  certain  thing,  and 
it  becomes  fact.  It  matters  not  that  past  or  future  may 
deny  it.  To-day  it  is  a  fact. 

For  untold  thousands  of  years  man  had  accepted,  as 
fact,  the  venality  of  man.  The  Bible,  accepted  in  one 
form  or  another  by  practically  all  the  white  world,  in- 
sists upon  man's  venality.  It  teaches  that  for  his  sins 
man  was  hurled  from  Eden. 

Other  creeds  teach  the  same  thing;  sin  is  inherent  in 
man ;  it  may  be  conquered,  but  it  is  a  living  fact. 

This  was  the  Great  Fact,  to  the  demolishment  of  which 
the  Day  of  Faith  had  bent  itself.  And  the  Great  Fact, 
that  had  endured  the  preachments,  the  hopes,  the  prayers 
of  thousands  of  centuries,  suddenly  crumbled  into  nothing- 
ness, to  be  replaced  by  the  Greater  Fact,  —  that  man 
was  good. 

Auto-hypnosis !  But  what  did  it  matter  that  Michael 
Anstell  knew  it  to  be  this?  The  world  believed  differently. 

In  the  centuries  past,  on  many  occasions,  multitudes 
had  prayed.  They  had  prayed  for  relief  from  pestilence, 
from  famine,  from  wars.  Never  had  a  multitude  assembled 
in  a  devotion  which  asked  nothing. 

This  was  the  fashion  in  which  the  devotion  of  the  Day 
of  Faith  differed  from  all  other  devotions.  Men  asked 
nothing.  And  because  they  asked  nothing,  they  received 
all! 

All !  For  the  gates  of  hate  were  released  and  the  pent- 
up  poison  of  a  million  years  vanished !  Hate !  The  only 
barrier  that  separated  man  from  complete  happiness,  and 
it  was  gone! 

For  facts  are  what  men  believe  to  be  facts,  and  a 
hypnotized  world  had  decided,  convinced  by  the  billion 
voices  that  had  been  raised  to  heaven,  that  its  neighbor 


THE  DAY  OF  FAITH  283 

was  perfect!  Men  believed,  and  believing  wrought  in 
miracles. 

Not  the  cheap,  tawdry  miracles  that  had  marked  the 
progress  of  the  world  toward  its  Day  of  Faith.  To  heal 
an  ailing  body  was,  after  all,  but  the  legerdemain  of  a 
conjurer.  As  proof  of  greater  powers,  such  things  were 
well  enough ;  but  in  the  sudden  knowledge  of  possession  of 
those  greater  powers  men  did  not  stop  to  ask  the  physical 
miracles  that  had  been  so  marvelous  but  yesterday. 

For  these  were  the  greater  miracles ;  these  were  the 
healings  of  the  mind,  of  the  heart,  before  which  no  dis- 
eases of  the  body  could  stand,  or,  standing,  were  rendered 
nothing. 

For  the  heart  of  man  was  healed!  His  mind  was 
drained  of  the  poisons  of  a  million  years  of  falsehood. 
Man  was  not  evil ;  he  was  good.  He  had  been  so  declared 
by  his  neighbor,  and  before  that  great  affirmation  no  false- 
hood, however  hoary  with  antiquity,  however  backed  by 
the  belief  of  a  thousand  generations,  could  stand. 

The  world  observed  its  million  local  miracles,  marveling. 
But,  because  it  was  human,  it  marveled  more  at  the  news 
brought  to  it  by  the  wires,  distributed  by  the  press.  The 
thing  that  yesterday  would  have  been  a  neighborhood 
miracle  became  a  commonplace.  It  took  great  things  to 
thrill  the  world,  to  make  it  understand,  definitely,  what 
had  come  to  it. 

And  these  great  tidings  were  poured  out. 

Two  armies,  held  in  leash  for  a  propitious  moment, 
had  swung  into  action  at  last.  These,  yielding  to  orders 
from  their  respective  governments,  had  observed  the  Day 
of  Faith.  On  the  eve  of  bloody  battle  they  had  uttered 
the  Great  Affirmation. 

Because  their  governments  had  wished  to  profess  faith 
with  the  rest  of  the  world,  hundreds  of  thousands  of 


284  THE  DAY  OF  FAITH 

armed  men  had  joined  in  the  utterance  of  the  Bland 
Hendricks  creed. 

Then  —  they  had  lain  down  their  arms ! 

Correspondents,  prepared  to  see  slaughter,  saw  fra- 
ternity, and  hastened  to  appraise  the  world. 

This  was  the  first  of  the  great  miracles.  Armed  men, 
trained  to  bloodshed,  defending,  each  body  believed  in 
all  sincerity,  its  hearth  and  loved  ones,  laid  down  their 
arms.  For  they  believed,  and  believing,  how  could  they 
slay?  The  careful  arguments  of  their  press,  their  govern- 
ment, their  orators,  were  forgotten.  Those  arguments 
had  been  believed  as  implicitly  as  though  they  had  been 
Holy  Writ,  but  newer  and  greater  truths  suddenly  super- 
seded them. 

"  My  Neighbor  Is  Perfect." 

One  man  alone  could  say  that  —  and  sneer.  A  million 
could  have  said  it  —  and  jeered.  But  a  billion  had  uttered 
it  and  conquered  its  own  disbelief. 

Peace !  Not  to-morrow,  not  next  year.  But  to-day ! 
This  is  what  the  Great  Affirmation  had  meant.  Men  could 
hold  no  anger,  no  hatred,  toward  men  who  could  contain 
no  evil.  Fantastic,  incredible,  yet  fact! 

This,  in  the  eyes  of  the  unthinking,  ranked  as  first  of 
the  miracles.  Because  the  peace  of  the  world  had  sud- 
denly, despite  the  Anstell  campaign,  begun  to  tremble 
in  the  balance.  Had  these  two  armies  locked,  the  rest  of 
the  world  might  have  been  imperiled. 

But  the  thinking  knew  that  other  matters  were  greater. 
And  the  greatest  was  the  overthrow  of  the  Law. 

The  law  was  the  most  precious  thing  known  to  man, 
because  on  it  rested  his  whole  security.  Without  the  pro- 
tection of  the  law,  the  assurance  it  gave  to  him,  he  would 
have  instantly  relapsed  to  barbarism.  Painfully,  hardly, 
he  had  evolved  the  complicated  system  whereby  the  social 
order  was  maintained. 


THE  DAY  OF  FAITH  285 

For  the  law  recognized  what  few  men  did:  that  right 
and  wrong  were  so  interchangeable  that  it  took  men  of 
learning,  of  great  mentality,  to  decide  which  was  which. 

And  now  this  tremendous  system,  for  the  creation  of 
which  untold  millions  had  given  their  lives,  utterly  and 
completely  broke  down.  For  the  law,  like  most  of  religion, 
had  its  foundation  in  economic  things.  Man  decided  upon 
what  constituted  the  greatest  good  to  the  greatest  num- 
ber and  called  it  law.  Soon,  because  the  majority  ap- 
proved of  these  matters,  they  drifted  away  from  lay 
temples  into  those  of  religion.  Instead  of  being  matters 
solely  economic,  they  became  matters  also  moral. 

Nevertheless,  upon  law  far  more  than  upon  religion, 
man  had  placed  his  dependence.  Without  the  law  there 
could  be  no  security.  This  was  the  most  powerful  belief 
in  all  the  world.  And  the  Day  of  Faith  had  demolished 
it  at  one  blow. 

For,  by  the  morrow  of  that  Day,  men  knew  that  there 
was  no  law  in  the  world,  save  the  law  implied  in  the  Great 
Affirmation.  Law  was  made  to  prevent  men  from  do^ng 
.harm.  It  held  no  application  for  a  world  of  men  who 
were  perfect. 

Jails!  These  were  the  first  to  cease  their  usefulness. 
And  Sing  Sing,  where  Montreal  Sammy  was  confined, 
was  the  first  to  demonstrate  to  a  new  and  joyous  world 
that  prisons  had  ceased  to  be. 

The  inmates  of  Sing  Sing  had  been  given  a  holiday,  in 
order  that  they,  too,  might  celebrate  the  Day  of  Faith. 
Drawn  up  in  the  great  yard,  in  military  array,  led  by  a 
chaplain,  they  had  voiced  the  Great  Affirmation.  Theirs 
had  been  the  bitterest  of  the  sneers  that  had  been  raised 
against  the  Day  of  Faith.  For  what  could  such  a  day 
mean  to  them?  Nothing,  they  thought. 

Indeed,  it  was  not  until  the  next  morning,  when  a  night 
of  dreaming  had  fixed  more  firmly  the  new  idea  in  the 


286  THE  DAY  OF  FAITH 

minds  of  the  world,  that  the  underworld,  that  portion  of 
it  undergoing  punishments  for  its  violations  of  the  social 
code,  awoke  to  realization  of  the  new  order. 

Montreal  Sammy  had  been  utterly  and  absolutely  con- 
vinced that  Jane  Maynard  would  keep  her  word,  that  she 
would  set  him  free.  He  had  made  no  further  effort  to 
escape ;  had,  indeed,  resigned  to  his  fate,  and  deeming  that 
fate  only  temporary,  become  a  model  prisoner.  He  had 
undergone  the  punishment  meted  out  to  him  for  breaking 
jail  with  a  patience  that  had  amazed  his  warders,  had 
made  them  believe  that  here  was  a  genuinely  reformed 
criminal. 

For  the  first  time  in  his  suspicious  life  Montreal  Sammy 
had  had  faith  in  the  sincerity  of  a  fellow  human.  So  he 
had  received  Yegg  Darby  without  animosity.  It  didn't 
matter,  this  treachery  of  Darby's.  Sooner  or  later  Mont- 
real Sammy  would  have  been  caught,  would  have  had  to 
pay  the  price  of  his  criminality.  That  he  had  been 
brought  early  to  book,  through  the  instrumentality  of 
Darby,  didn't  matter.  Because  Jane  Maynard  had  prom- 
ised to  set  him  free. 

She'd  do  it.  How,  Montreal  Sammy  didn't  know — or 
care.  He  supposed  that  through  some  circuitous  method 
she  would  inveigle  the  governor  into  granting  a  pardon. 
He  didn't  worry  about  the  method.  Results  alone  counted 
with  Montreal  Sammy,  and  he  knew,  somehow,  that  Jane 
would  not  fail  of  results. 

That  she  had  sent  him  no  word  during  these  recent 
months,  that,  apparently,  he  was  as  permanently  immured 
as  any  of  the  other  "  lifers  "  in  the  prison,  didn't  frighten 
lum.  He  supposed  that  Jane  had  forgotten  him.  She 
had,  in  the  press  of  other  things,  but  not  permanently. 
She  had  made  many  statements  in  recent  times,  all  of 
which  had  been  made  sincerely,  yet  seemed,  somehow,  to 


THE  DAY  OF  FAITH  287 

have  been  prompted  by  something  without  herself:  the 
Hendricks  creed,  for  example. 

But  it  was  Montreal  Sammy  himself  who  reminded  her, 
with  his  own  voice,  not  through  the  intermediary  of  any 
messenger,  of  her  promise  to  release  him  and  of  the  keep- 
ing of  her  promise. 

For  on  the  morning  following  the  Day  of  Faith,  the 
doors  of  Sing  Sing  were  thrown  wide.  The  law,  the  great 
system  of  jurisprudence  on  which  mankind  depended,  had 
given  way  to  the  greater  system  that  Jane  Maynard  had 
put  before  the  world. 

Men  were  perfect.  This  was  no  lip  utterance ;  it  was  a 
suddenly  recognized  truth,  a  fact.  A  fact  as  compelling 
as  yesterday's  fact  that  men  were  evil.  How  could  prison 
walls  endure  before  that  fact?  Suddenly  prisons  became 
absurd,  ridiculous  things. 

It  takes  no  legislative  act  to  change  a  fashion.  Fads 
are  born  in  the  night  and  die  in  the  morning.  On  one 
day  a  woman  would  rather  die  than  expose,  on  the 
Avenue,  the  calf  of  her  leg.  Another  day  arrives  and  she 
would  die  rather  than  hide  the  same  part  of  her  anatomy. 
It  is  immoral  to  show  the  limb  to-day ;  it  is  almost  vulgar 
not  to  show  it  to-morrow;  and  by  the  day  after  it  may 
again  be  immoral. 

So  it  had  been  a  fashion,  for  centuries,  to  confine  crim- 
inals. Great  changes  are  made  just  as  swiftly  as  minor 
ones.  Here  was,  in  the  light  of  the  new  fact  that  had 
come  to  the  world's  consciousness,  a  crying  and  damnable 
wrong.  Before  the  Day  of  Faith  men  had  not  esteemed 
the  jailer.  To-day  he  could  not  esteem  himself. 

A  new  thought  had  come  to  all  men,  whether  they  were 
jailers  or  jailed.  And  in  the  light  of  that  thought,  in  its 
clarifying  brilliance,  falsehood  could  not  endure.  These 
were  men,  these  prisoners  confined  within  the  walls  of  Sing 
Sing.  How  differentiate  them  from  their  more  fortunate 


288  THE  DAY  OF  FAITH 

fellow  men?  It  could  not  be  done.  Man  could  not  say 
that  his  neighbor  was  perfect  and  then  withdraw  the 
statement  because  of  the  past.  A  clean  slate,  a  new  slate, 
witli  no  ribald  markings  upon  its  virginal  surface ! 

The  law  not  merely  broke  down ;  it  vanished.  There 
was  no  formality  to  its  departure.  The  prisoners  were 
simply  informed  that  they  were  free. 

How  could  they  be  imprisoned?  They  had  sinned  be- 
cause their  minds  were  not  attuned  to  the  accepted  chord. 
But  a  new  chord  had  been  struck,  and  to  that  chord  the 
hearts  of  all  men,  regardless  of  yesterday,  were  attuned. 

Free!  By  the  simple  act  of  their  jailers  stepping  aside. 
No  fear  of  the  consequences  restrained  these  jailers  from 
their  action.  They  could  not  do  otherwise.  For  man- 
kind does  what  he  thinks  he  must.  For  all  past  time 
men  had  acted  in  certain  ways  because  they  thought  they 
must.  Now,  they  acted  in  an  entirely  different  way,  be- 
cause the  thing  newly  come  into  their  hearts  ordered  them 
to  do  so.  They  obeyed. 

Free!  Not  merely  in  Sing  Sing,  but  in  all  the  prisons 
of  the  world.  And  in  those  places  worse  than  prison, 
where  people  were  confined  because  their  minds  had  been 
afflicted.  These,  too,  were  healed  by  the  same  great  truth, 
the  same  universally  accepted  fact!  For  an  hypnosis 
that  will  conquer  the  strong  must  necessarily  conquer  the 
infirm. 

Not  the  great  armies  laying  down  their  arms,  but  the 
mind  of  man  putting  aside  its  base  superstition — this  was 
the  miracle.  Not  the  halt  walking,  but  the  feeble  of 
mind  seeing  clearly:  this  was  the  miracle. 

Not  even  Anstell  had  foreseen  these  things.  How  could 
any  man  foresee  them?  For  man  had  lived  so  long,  trav- 
eling the  same  path,  accepting  the  same  idea,  changed  each 
year  to  conform  to  his  greater  growth,  that  he  could 
foresee  no  other  road.  Man  believed  in  laws  and  deemed 


THE  DAY  OF  FAITH  2S9 

them,  despite  the  yearly  changes,  immutable.  The  great- 
est law  that  he  had  observed  was  the  natural  law  of  man's 
innate  viciousness.  That  he  had  considered  unchangeable. 

Now,  suddenly,  that  law  had  been  demolished.  This, 
the  greatest  of  laws,  dragged  into  oblivion  with  it  all  his 
other  laws.  The  world  was  turned  upside  down. 

Free,  because  perfect  men  could  not  punish  other  per- 
fect beings.  A  thing  that  yesterday  would  have  brought 
a  smile  to  the  lips  of  the  most  devout  and  kindly  man, 
but  that  to-day,  new  laws  governing,  was  as  sane  as 
yesterday  it  would  have  been  insane. 

A  world  that  knew  no  restraint  save  that  imposed  by 
man's  charitable  opinion  of  man :  a  world  gone  crazy  — 
with  the  truth.  A  world — at  last — in  which  the  lion  lay/ 
down  with  the  lamb. 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

DAZED,  wondering,  some  of  them,  what  sort  of  trick 
"their  sudden  and  informal  release  portended,  the  inmates 
of  Sing  Sing  entered  the  motor-busses  that  were  to  take 
them  to  the  train.  For  here,  within  these  grim  walls,  had 
been  offered  the  strongest  resistance  to  the  new  idea. 
They  uttered  the  Great  Affirmation,  but  few  indeed  were 
those  who  had  believed. 

But  one  who  emerges  from  a  dark  room  into  the  sun- 
light is  blinded.  So  with  these  men.  From  the  dark  room 
of  prison,  where  there  is  no  hope,  they  entered  into  a 
blinding  sunshine.  And  the  old  beliefs  fell  away  from 
them,  as  they  had  fallen  away  from  the  rest  of  the  world. 

Montreal  Sammy,  leaving  the  Grand  Central  Station, 
no  longer  sought  the  mean  byways.  For  the  first  time  in 
many  years  he  dared  walk  down  Fifth  Avenue. 

And  what  an  Avenue !  Even  those  discourtesies  of  the 
past  were  gone.  Here  were  crowds  considerate  of  their 
neighbor.  Policemen  remained  as  traffic  warders,  but  for 
that  purpose  only.  Although  Montreal  Sammy  didn't 
know  it  at  the  moment,  anarchy  practically  reigned  in 
the  city,  in  the  State,  in  the  nation,  in  the  world. 

For  policemen  and  detectives  had  reported  for  duty 
this  morning  to  become  suddenly  conscious  of  the  absurd- 
ity of  their  life-work.  The  Commissioner  had  issued  a 
proclamation  early  in  the  forenoon.  It  was  to  the  effect 
that  since  there  was  no  more  criminality  in  the  world, 
criminal  catchers  were  anachronistic.  The  police  would 
te  retained,  as  many  as  were  needed  for  the  purposes  of 
acting  as  guides  to  strangers,  regulating  traffic,  and  such 


THE  DAY  OF  FAITH  291 

other  matters  as  might  arise,  but  the  great  majority  would 
be  permitted  to  depart  and  enter  more  congenial  occu- 
pations. 

Grand  juries  and  petty  juries  had  ceased  to  function. 
Judges,  prosecuting  attorneys  —  all  these  began  to  mark 
time.  For  all  knew  in  their  hearts  that  to  continue  in 
their  present  ways  was  impossible.  The  great  profession 
of  the  law  realized,  in  a  body,  that  its  usefulness  was 
practically  ended.  Legislators  understood  that  their 
functions  would  be  greatly  curtained.  Makers  of  muni- 
tions, soldiers,  fighting  sailors  —  these,  too,  understood 
what  the  great  change  meant  to  them. 

Yet  there  was  no  panic.  Men  understood  that  even 
though  the  careers  toward  which  they  had  bent  all  their 
energies  were  no  longer  possible,  there  would  be  other 
careers. 

Disarmament,  a  state  toward  which  gentle  souls  had 
tried  to  guide  a  reluctant  world,  was  practically  an  ac- 
complished fact. 

Anarchy,  not  the  riotous,  murderous  thing  that  most 
persons  understood  by  the  word,  but  that  anarchy  which 
simply  consists  in  no  regulation  of  the  individual  or  the 
mass  save  that  inspired  by  his  own  goodness,  a  state  im- 
possible in  a  world  not  populated  by  perfect  people,  was 
not  merely  possible ;  it  had  arrived ! 

Gentle  souls  had  over  the  centuries  preached  this 
friendly  anarchy,  and  men  had  scoffed  at  them,  jeered  at 
them ;  the  same  men  who  had  professed  belief  in  the 
preachings  of  the  Founder  of  Christianity,  proving  always 
that  they  had  considered  Him  a  visionary,  an  impractical 
dreamer. 

But  His  Day  had  come!  Men  knew,  at  last,  that  He 
had  been  no  fanatic,  but  a  sane,  hard-headed  preacher  of 
the  Truth.  Men  marveled  now  that  for  more  than  nine- 
teen centuries  they  had  done  Him  lip  service  only. 


292  THE  DAY  OF  FAITH 

A  chaotic  world,  but  a  happy  one.  A  world  no  longer 
bound  by  formula,  but  a  world  that,  casting  formula 
aside,  had  achieved  the  Great  Result. 

Manhood  came  back  to  Montreal  Sammy  as  he  walked 
down  Fifth  Avenue.  He  completely  forgot  the  existence 
of  plain-clothes  men.  Indeed,  their  camera  eyes  were  no 
longer  trained  on  him,  seeking  the  viciousness  that  might 
be  hidden  under  the  disguise  of  decency.  There  were  no 
more  disguises,  because  there  was  no  viciousness. 

At  Madison  Square  he  paused.  Prompted  by  nothing 
but  their  own  grateful  impulses,  a  great  throng  had  as- 
sembled in  the  Garden  and  overflowed  into  the  park  out- 
side. They  were  conducting  no  services,  but  occasionally 
cheers  burst  from  their  throats.  Children  sing  and  dance 
in  the  exuberance  of  their  health;  men  sang,  even  danced, 
in  the  exuberance  of  their  spiritual  health. 

It  was  holiday!  Even  those  who  worked  to-day  at- 
tacked their  labors  with  a  different  spirit.  Work,  after 
all,  was  joy.  Michael  Anstell  had  not  guessed  all  this. 
He  had  expected  a  malleable  world;  it  was  a  world  of 
putty. 

In  the  Foundation  on  Carey  Street,  Montreal  Sammy 
found  Jane.  She  had  awakened  from  sleep  refreshed  de- 
spite her  dreams.  For  they  had  been  lovely  dreams. 

"  You  got  me  out,  Miss  Maynard,"  said  Montreal 
Sammy. 

She  smiled  at  him.  "  Fm  afraid  that  I'd  almost  forgot- 
ten you." 

He  shook  his  head.  "  You  was  workin'  at  big  things, 
and  I  was  part  of  them,  Miss  Maynard." 

She  smiled  again.  "  You  made  me  realize  what  the  big 
thing  was." 

Montreal  Sammy  had  not  realized  before  that  his  part, 
while  unadmirable,  had  been  great  in  the  Day  of  Faith. 


THE  DAY  OF  FAITH  293 

Now  he  did  realize,  and  a  humility  that  had  never  been  in 
him  before  rose  to  the  surface. 

"  I  guess,  Miss  Maynard,  that  we  all  helped  —  some- 
how, didn't  we?  " 

"  Unless,"  she  answered,  "  all  the  world  had  wanted  it, 
it  could  never  have  come." 

That  was  the  great  basis  on  which  the  Day  of  Faith 
had  been  founded.  For  even  those  who  had  sneered  had, 
down  underneath  them,  that  saving  decency  which  had 
made  them,  perhaps  unknown  to  themselves,  desire  good- 
ness. Save  one!  But  Jane  did  not  know  the  purpose  of 
Michael  Anstell. 

John  Anstell  entered  the  Foundation  while  Jane  talked 
with  Montreal  Sammy, —  entered,  indeed,  as  Jane  was  of- 
fering Sammy  money.  But  the  ex-convict  refused. 

He  was  a  man,  by  the  grace  of  the  mysterious  yet  sub- 
limely simple  thing  that  had  happened  to  the  world.  The 
world  would  treat  him  kindly ;  there  was  work  for  him 
and  reward  for  the  work.  He  needed  no  aid,  would  not 
accept  any. 

Smilingly,  proud  of  him,  as  all  the  world,  amazingly, 
was  proud  of  its  neighbor,  they  watched  him  go.  John 
seized  Jane's  hands. 

"  Jane,  we  won't  wait  any  longer,  will  we?  " 

She  shook  her  head  and  gave  him  her  lips. 

"  To-day?  "  he  asked. 

She  blushed.    "  Not  that  soon,  John." 

"  To-morrow?  "  he  asked  eagerly. 

"  Next  month  —  perhaps,"  she  told  him. 

With  that  he  forced  himself  to  be  content  and  left  her, 
bound  for  his  father's  office.  He  walked  on  feet  of  air, 
and  those  whom  he  passed  seemed  to  have  a  new  and 
strange  resiliency  of  footfall.  A  benign  madness  was  in 
the  eyes  of  all ;  it  was  in  his  own ;  it  had  settled  down  upon 
the  world.  At  least,  yesterday  it  would  have  been  called 


294  THE  DAY  OF  FAITH 

madness.  But  to-day  it  was  sanity,  the  only  true  sanity 
that  a  warring  world  had  known  in  all  its  existence. 

He  found  his  father,  strangely  nervous  for  that  self- 
controlled  person,  in  his  office.  Before  him  were  telegrams 
and  cables  and  wireless  reports  from  all  over  the  world. 
He  leaped  feverishly  to  his  feet  and  gripped  his  son's 
hands  in  his  own. 

"  It's  worked,  boy,"  he  cried. 

"  Indeed  it  has,  Father,"  was  the  young  man's  answer. 
"  And  you — did  you  guess  that  the  world  would  be  re- 
made, born  again?  " 

Michael  Anstell  shuddered  faintly.  "  I'm  no  soothsayer, 
Son,"  he  said.  "  I  didn't  know  —  how  big " 

"  It's  the  millennium,"  said  John. 

He  walked  to  the  window  and  stared  down  upon  the 
city,  the  harbor,  the  river,  the  bay.  He  turned  back  to 
his  father. 

"  You  are  the  greatest  man  in  the  world,  Father,"  he 
said. 

Michael  Anstell  eyed  him.  "  Not  so  great  as  you  will 
be,  my  son,"  he  answered  fondly.  Yet,  had  John  known  it, 
there  was  a  quaver  in  his  voice  that  was  not  due  to  affec- 
tion. It  was  due  to  uncertainty.  For  if  his  own  son  re- 
fused the  benefits  of  Michael  Anstell's  great  scheme 

But  he  would  not.  No  sane  man  could,  and  though  John 
might  be  insane  now,  insane  with  the  rest  of  the  world, 
sanity  would  be  restored  to  him  when  he  understood  how 
tremendous  were  his  father's  plans  for  him.  There  could 
be  »o  permanent  sloppy  sentimentality  in  the  flesh  and 
blood  of  Michael  Anstell. 

"  Jane  and  I  want  to  be  married  now,"  said  John, 
simply. 

His  father  eyed  him.  "  What  do  you  mean  by  '  now,'  ' 
he  asked. 


THE  DAY  OF  FAITH  295 

John  laughed.  "  Why,  I  mean  to-day,  but  Jane  won't: 
have  it  that  way.  She  says  next  month." 

His  father  nodded  approving^.  "  That  ought  to  sat- 
isfy you,  John.  Never  rush  a  woman.  You  might  make 
her  change  her  mind." 

John  laughed  again.     "  Not  Jane.     She  won't  change." 

"  Possibly  not,"  said  his  father  dryly.  "  Still  —  women 
have  changed  their  minds,  you  know.  And  so  have  men." 

"  I'm  hardly  likely  to,  Father,"  said  John,  confidently.. 

"  Of  course  not,"  said  Michael  Anstell.  "  And  you 
don't  want  to.  Why,  Jane  Maynard's  husband  will  be  — 
well,  he  can  get  out  of  this  world  almost  anything  that 
he  asks  of  it." 

Bewilderment  appeared  in  John's  eyes.  "  What  more 
could  I  want  —  than  Jane?  " 

"  Well,  you're  not  going  to  quit  having  outside  inter- 
ests, you  know,"  said  his  father.  "  You  might,"  he 
laughed,  "  want  to  be  President." 

"  I've  no  political  ambitions,  Father.  And  —  that's 
absurd,  anyway.  I  —  I  —  well,  I'm  not  old  enough." 

"  You  will  be  some  day,"  replied  Michael.  "  Leave  that 
to  time.  And  to  me.  And  to  Jane." 

"  I'm  perfectly  willing  to,  dad,"  chuckled  the  young 
man. 

They  talked  perfunctorily  of  other  things,  and  then. 
John  left,  to  perform  a  bit  of  business  having  to  do  with 
the  transfer  of  some  real  estate.  In  the  outer  office  he 
paused  to  obtain  papers  necessary  for  the  transaction- 
He  was  filled  with  pride,  because  his  father  had  never 
entrusted  him  with  quite  so  important  a  piece  of  business 
as  this  one  now. 

So  he  stayed  just  long  enough  to  see  Mizler,  the  ex- 
saloon-keeper,  enter  the  outer  office.  John  recognized  the 
man;  he  heard  him,  with  an  insistence  that  overrode  de- 


296  THE  DAY  OF  FAITH 

nial,  give  his  name  and  demand  that  it  be  taken  into 
Michael  Anstell. 

He  left  as  a  secretary,  impressed  by  the  man's  earnest- 
ness, was  acquiescing. 

"  Mizler."  The  name  stuck  in  his  mind.  The  man  whom 
he  had  seen  in  the  lower  West  Side  saloon  and  again  later, 
leaving  his  father's  house.  Remembrance  of  his  father's 
denial  that  he  had  ever  been  in  the  saloon  leaped  into  his 
mind,  turning  it  sick. 

For  events  had  driven  from  his  thoughts  the  memory 
of  that  lie  of  Michael  Anstell's.  It  had  puzzled  John  at 
the  time,  hurt  him,  disappointed  him,  but  —  he  had  for- 
gotten it.  Now  he  remembered. 

Desperately  he  tried  to  put  it  from  him.  His  father 
was  perfect ;  therefore  he  could  not  lie.  And  yet  —  he 
was  facing  the  first  test  of  the  new  creed,  the  new  spirit, 
the  new  thought  that  animated  men.  And  desperately 
he  thought  to  evade  the  test.  It  was  so  slight,  so  trivial. 
Then,  suddenly,  he  grew  ashamed  at  the  thought  of  the 
injustice  he  might  be  working  toward  his  father.  Sup- 
pose that  he,  John  Anstell,  had  been  misled  by  a  fancied 
resemblance. 

But  he  must  know.     Downstairs  he  waited. 

Upstairs,  the  interview  between  Mizler  and  Michael 
Anstell  was  brief.  Mizler  had  come  to  see  the  billionaire 
for  no  reason  in  the  world  save  to  offer  apology. 

"  Michael,"  he  had  said  nervously,  "  I  couldn't  wait 
another  minute.  I  done  you  dirt  in  my  heart.  I  thought 
you  had  some  sort  of  scheme.  Michael,  you're  the  great- 
est man  in  the  world,  and  I  had  to  tell  you  so." 

Anstell  had  hidden  a  smile.  If  Mizler  believed,  the 
last  stronghold  of  doubt  had  been  conquered. 

"  My  proposed  methods,  Mizler,  were  stupid,"  he  said. 
"  I'm  glad  that  we  didn't  use  them." 

Mizler,  tears  streaming  down  his  broad  cheeks,  had 


THE  DAY  OF  FAITH  297 

shaken  hands  with,  the  billionaire  and  left.  In  the  lobby 
of  the  building  he  saw  the  young  man  whom  he  had  rec- 
ognized, from  scores  of  newspaper  pictures,  as  Anstell's 
son. 

John  was  waiting  for  him,  to  put  a  question  for  think- 
ing which  he  hated  himself.  Yet  he  must  put  it.  But 
he  didn't.  For  Mizler,  still  in  the  throes  of  self-contempt 
because  he  had  doubted  Michael  Anstell,  advanced  to  the 
young  man  and  suddenly  seized  his  hand. 

"  You  don't  know  me,  young  man,  but  I  know  you," 
he  said.  "  I've  known  your  father  years  and  years.  A 
great  man  and  a  good  man.  I  just  been  up  to  see  him, 
to  tell  him  how  sorry  I  am  —  my  God,  I  doubted  him." 
He  said  the  words  as  though  he  had  been  guilty  of  blas- 
phemy. 

"  Doubted  him?  "  echoed  John. 

"  Yes,  because  he  wanted  me  to  fix  up  some  fake  mira- 
cles for  him." 

"  Fake  miracles?  "  gasped  John. 

"  Sure.  But  we  never  done  'em.  We  didn't  need  to. 
The  real  ones  come  along  too  quick.  I  couldn't  under- 
stand —  then  —  why  your  father,  if  he  was  on  the  level 
with  his  scheme,  wanted  any  phony  stuff.  But  he's  a 
bigger  man  than  you  or  me.  He  knew  how  big  his  plan 
was.  He  didn't  want  to  take  no  chances  of  its  floppin'. 
And  he  was  right.  Dead  right.  What  harm  would  a 
little  play-actin'  have  done,  if  it  made  the  world  better? 
I  done  him  wrong,  and  I  had  to  tell  him  so.  I  want  to 
tell  you,  too,  so  you  can  know  how  great  a  man,  how 
brainy  a  man,  your  father  is." 

That  was  all.  But  it  was  enough.  So  —  Michael  An- 
stell had  not  been  scrupulous  in  his  methods  of  imposing 
upon  the  world  the  Day  of  Faith.  For  a  moment  John 
was  indignant.  Then  he  saw  with  Mizler's  eyes.  Surely, 


£98  THE  DAY  OF  FAITH 

if  ever  the  end  justified  the  means,  the  bringing  about 
of  the  Day  of  Faith  had  been  that  end. 

Then,  another  thought  came  to  him.  Why  had  his 
father  denied  knowing  Mizler?  He  shrugged.  Because 
he  could  not  afford  to  arouse  any  distrust  in  his  own  son. 
For  John  recognized  that  his  distrust  would  have  been 
aroused.  His  father  was  right  in  the  slight  deception. 

But,  and  this  thought  raced  through  his  mind,  right 
cannot  be  founded  on  wrong.  And  it  would  have  been 
wrong  to  deceive  the  world  with  manufactured  miracles. 
For  that  matter,  and  his  brain  reeled  before  the  idea, 
perhaps  there  had  been  manufactured  miracles.  Perhaps 
—  he  almost  ran  out  into  the  street,  as  though  to  flee  the 
wicked  thought. 

But  he  could  not  escape  it.  If  Mizler  had  been  pro- 
cured to  obtain  false  miracles,  perhaps 

Why?  It  had  been  strange  enough,  his  father's  sud- 
den conversion  to  the  Hendricks  creed.  But  to  procure 
false  witnesses  to  make  certain  that  creed's  accept- 
ance    Before  God,  it  could  not  be  true.  Why  — 

it  tore  down  all  the  foundations.     His  neighbor  was  per- 
fect ;  he  must  so  believe.     That  meant  his  father. 

His  thoughts  were  chaotic.  Slowly,  out  of  them  re- 
solved one  idea.  A  little  while  ago  Michael  Anstell  had 
told  him  that  all  things  were  within  the  reach  of  Jane 
Maynard's  husband.  The  Anstell  blood  was  in  the  veins 
of  John.  His  father  could  not  have  held  the  spirit  that 
had  conquered  the  finances  of  the  world  without  trans- 
mitting something  of  that  lust  for  power,  though  it  had 
been  so  long  dormant,  to  his  own  flesh  and  blood. 

"  My  neighbor  is  perfect." 

But  the  faintest  doubt  had  crept  in.  Had  his  father 
deliberately  been  hinting  certain  things?  Suddenly  the 
mouth  of  the  young  man  became  hard.  He  would  not 


THE  DAY  OF  FAITH  299 

doubt  until  he  had  had  a  talk  with  his  father.  He  would 
hold  to  the  Hendricks  creed  until  then. 

But  Michael  Anstell  had  won.  Into  the  heart  of  his 
son  he  had  poured  the  poison  of  ambition.  He  had  taken 
liim  up  onto  a  mountain  and  shown  him  the  kingdoms  of 
the  earth,  and  John  Anstell  was  no  prophet,  he  was  no 
divinity.  He  was  human,  suddenly  awakened  to  his  com- 
mon humanity  with  his  father. 

"  President,"  Michael  Anstell  had  said. 

But  what  was  a  Presidency  to  a  man  who  was  the 
son  of  Michael  Anstell  and  would  be  the  husband  of  Jane 
Maynard?  It  was  nothing.  Such  a  man  might  aspire 
—  merciful  God,  to  what  might  he  not  aspire? 

For  a  barrel  may  be  filled  with  apples,  and  all  save  one 
of  them  may  be  sound  and  whole.  But  the  whole  and 
sound  do  not  make  the  rotten  apple  like  themselves. 
Rather,  the  one  rotten  apple  corrupts  the  whole  barrel. 

So  it  is  with  men.  One  evil  example  —  Michael  An- 
stell, not  realizing  that  already  his  son  was  seeing  eye 
to  eye  with  him,  but  believing  that  soon  enough  he  would, 
imagined  that  the  spread  of  rottenness  could  be  controlled. 

As  well  suppose  that  one  may  make  a  hole  in  a  dam, 
and  that  the  hole  will  not  grow.  Michael  Anstell  had  the 
greatest  imagination  in  the  world;  he  had  proved  that. 
But  he  was  neither  god  nor  devil;  he  was  merely  an  in- 
finitely evil  man,  and  with  the  limitations  of  his  kind. 


CHAPTER  XXX 

EACH  one  is  taken  up  onto  a  mountain.  To  every 
man  and  to  every  woman  comes  that  ascent,  and  the  king- 
doms of  the  earth  are  unfolded  before  them. 

John  Anstell's  body  walked  the  streets  of  New  York, 
but  his  mind  was  on  the  mountain  top,  and  he  listened  to 
the  honeyed  promises.  His  brain  reeled  before  the  tre- 
mendous prospect.  The  son  of  Michael  Anstell  and  the 
husband  of  Jane  Maynard.  .  .  . 

He  was  hungry  and  exhausted  when  finally  he  turned 
toward  his  father's  home.  He  would  end  these  doubts 
that  had  come  to  him,  these  dreadful  doubts  that  at  first 
seemed  wicked,  incredible,  but  that  association  somehow 
robbed  of  evil. 

He  had  become  exalted;  with  all  the  rest  of  the  world 
—  save  Michael  Anstell  —  he  had  climbed  the  spiritual 
heights,  and  the  effort  took  toll  of  his  body.  Then  he 
had  descended  into  the  deep  pit  of  despair,  and  reaction 
from  the  journeys  had  cooled  his  mind,  rendered  it  sus- 
ceptible to  cunning  suggestion. 

Michael  Anstell  was  in  his  stud}'  when  his  son  arrived. 
Before  him,  on  a  huge  flat  desk,  were  innumerable  papers 
awaiting  his  signature.  His  great  dream  made  him  post- 
pone signing  them.  As  a  billion  souls  dreamed  to-night 
of  the  great  thing  that  had  come  to  the  world,  so  Michael 
Anstell  dreamed,  only  his  dream  was  of  the  great  thing 
that  had  come  to  him. 

Sitting  there,  staring  unseeingly  ahead,  his  mind  rev- 
eled in  an  evil  delight.  "  The  conquest  of  the  world," 
people  had  said  to  him.  Ah,  if  they  only  knew.  They 


THE  DAY  OF  FAITH  301 

thought  that  the  world  had  conquered  itself,  that  an  idea 
had  overthrown  its  evil.  But  Michael  Anstell  knew  that 
he,  and  he  alone,  had  conquered  the  world,  had  made  it 
his  slave,  the  meek  doer  of  his  will.  He  looked  up  as  his 
son  entered  the  room.  His  eyes  hardened,  and  his  lean 
yet  still  muscular  old  body  stiffened  as  though  to  repel 
an  assault. 

For  he  read  the  meaning  of  John's  haggard  eyes,  his 
disheveled  hair,  his  clothing  spotted  with  mud  from  care- 
less striding  across  uncleaned  crossings.  Michael  Anstell 
had  fought  many  battles  in  his  day.  Strong  men  had 
yielded  to  the  force  of  his  mighty  will.  But  to-night  he 
was  facing  a  man  who  was  flesh  of  his  own  flesh,  bone  of 
his  own  bone,  and  will  of  his  own  will. 

Yet,  though  prepared  for  struggle,  he  was  supremely 
confident  of  victory.  His  son  was  his  son.  A  pretty 
face  might  make  him  momentarily  forgetful  of  his  pa- 
ternity, might  temporarily  make  him  disdain  those  things 
which  in  the  eyes  of  Michael  Anstell  were  the  only  reali- 
ties, —  wealth  and  power. 

An  idea  might  claim  his  mind  for  awhile,  and  he  might 
seem  to  believe  in  chimeras,  but  sanity  would  return  to 
him  in  good  time,  and  then  —  Michael  Anstell  had  no 
doubt  as  to  what  John  would  do  then. 

He  knew  at  once  that  John  had  discovered  something. 
He  would  have  preferred  delay.  He  had  planned  sub- 
tlety, had  intended  to  use  that  as  his  weapon.  An  occa- 
sional remark,  like  those  of  this  afternoon,  until  the 
young  man  was  ready.  But  his  supreme  confidence  in 
himself  would  not  let  him  dodge  the  issue  now. 

"  Good  evening,  John,"  he  said  pleasantly. 

The  younger  man  stopped  just  inside  the  door.  For 
a  moment  he  stared  at  his  father,  then  slowly  and  care- 
fully he  closed  the  door.  He  tossed  his  hat  upon  a  chair 


302  THE  DAY  OF  FAITH 

and  strode  toward  his  father.     A  yard  away  he  stopped. 

"  Father!     What  have  you  done?  "  he  cried. 

The  old  man  stared  at  him. 

"What  do  you  mean,  John?  "  he  asked  quietly. 

"  You  know,"  cried  John.  "  I  talked  with  a  man 
named  Mizler  to-day,  and  he  told  me  —  you  did  go  to  his 
saloon ;  you  engaged  him  to  procure " 

"And  then  told  him  not  to,  John,"  interrupted  his 
father  dryly. 

The  young  man's  hand  passed  across  his  forehead  and 
eyes,  as  though  to  brush  something  away. 

"  But  how  do  I  know  that  you  didn't  get  some  one 
else?  " 

"  Sit  down,"  said  Michael  Anstell  coldly.  He  waited 
until  his  son  was  seated.  Then  he  spoke  again.  "  Sup- 
pose that  I  did?  "  he  demanded. 

"  But  why?  "  cried  John. 

On  the  lips  of  Michael  Anstell  appeared  a  faint  smile. 
He  knew  that  he  had  won ;  the  subtle  hints  of  this  after- 
noon had  done  their  work.  John  Anstell  was  his  own 
son. 

"Can't  you  guess?"  he  asked. 

Again  the  younger  man  brushed  at  his  eyes.  "  No," 
he  replied.  But  his  voice  shook.  His  father's  smile  grew 
broader. 

"  John,  isn't  the  world  better  for  the  Day  of  Faith?  " 
asked  Michael  Anstell. 

The  younger  man  nodded. 

"  Has  it  done  any  harm?  "  demanded  Anstell.  His 
voice  grew  louder  and  firmer. 

Again  the  young  man  nodded. 

"  Then  why,"  continued  his  father,  "  become  excited?  " 

"  But  the  rest  of  the  world  believes,  hopes 

"And  are  faith  and  hope  such  wicked  things?  "  asked 
the  billionaire. 


THE  DAY  OF  FAITH  SOS 

Impatiently  the  son  shook  his  head.  "  Let's  not  have 
sophistry,  Father,"  he  said.  "I  want  to  know  —  why." 

Old  Anstell  leaned  back  in  his  chair ;  his  body  relaxed, 
and  his  eyes  grew  less  hard.  The  game  was  in  his  own 
hands  now;  he  had  won  and  knew  that  he  had  won. 

"  As  a  matter  of  fact,  son,"  he  said,  "  there  Avere  no 
false  miracles.  They  weren't  necessary.  The  world  took 
the  idea  -  -  " 

"But  why?"  repeated  John.  "Why  did  you  —  oh, 
I  know  now,  Father.  You  don't  believe ;  you  never  did 
believe.  You  didn't  really  intend  or  want  me  to  believe. 
But  why?  " 

"  Why?  "  Anstell's  thin  hands,  blotched  with  brownish 
spots  that  age  brings,  interlocked.  "  You  are  a  young 
man,  John.  To-day's  happenings  have  no  meaning  be- 
yond to-day.  Not  to  you.  But  to  me,  who  have  lived 
longer  than  you  —  there  has  been  war  in  the  world,  John. 
It  is  not  over  yet;  it  is  never  over.  There  is  worse  than 
war  in  the  world.  There  is  unrest,  instability,  a  lack  of 
confidence  in  the  people  who  must  rule  the  world.  All 
over  the  world,  since  the  war,  there  has  been  a  disbelief 
in  the  good  intention  of  the  only  men  who  can  help  the 
world.  Vain  dreamers  spout  insane  ideas,  and  men  have 
listened  to  them. 

"  The  world  is  highly  organized,  John.  Without  or- 
ganization there  would  be  chaos.  You  know  what  has 
happened  in  various  countries  since  the  war.  They  have 
tried  to  violate  economic  laws,  and  the  result  is  pande- 
monium. Men  are  not  able  to  rule  themselves.  Always 
a  few  strong  men  must  guide  them,  must  lead  them  on  the 
way. 

"  But  the  world  has  blamed  these  few  strong  men  for 
the  things  that  have  happened  in  the  world.  Instead  of 
blaming  itself,  putting  the  blame  where  it  belongs,  on  the 
human  nature  of  every  one,  they  try  to  put  it  on  their 


304  THE  DAY  OF  FAITH 

rulers.  The  world  has  grown  tired  of  rulers.  Maddened 
with  half-baked,  undigested  ideas,  the  world  wanted 
change.  What  would  happen  to  the  world  if  change 
came,  the  pseudo-scientists,  the  half-grown  economists, 
the  would-be  Messiahs  have  not  stopped  to  consider.  For 
half  a  century  a  wicked  doctrine  has  been  preached  in  the 
world,  and  the  foolish,  the  idle,  the  vicious  have  listened 
to  it.  Men  have  preached  the  doctrine  of  disorganization, 
of  ingratitude  toward  the  great  figures  who  have  made 
the  world  what  it  is,  have  caused  it  to  progress,  instead 
of  to  retreat.  Because  a  millennium  wasn't  in  the  world, 
these  insane  radicals  have  wanted  to  destroy  it. 

"  The  war  made  them  more  powerful.  They  could  not, 
would  not  understand  that  war  is  inevitable,  always  has 
existed,  always  will  exist.  Instead,  they  professed  to  be- 
lieve that  a  few  individuals  could  plunge  nations  into 
war,  that  economic  conditions,  economic  laws  had  noth- 
ing to  do  with  it. 

"  They  denied  that  economic  laws  were  laws  at  all. 
They  said  that  they  were  made  and  enforced  by  greedy 
men  for  their  own  benefit.  Any  man  who  could  jingle 
two  dollars  together  in  his  pocket  was  a  thief  or  worse. 
Men  who  by  their  industry  and  frugality  amassed  a  little 
capital,  which  capital  they  immediately  turned  over  to 
labor,  causing  productiveness  in  the  world,  were  worse 
than  criminals,  according  to  these  radicals. 

"  Business  —  the  whole  foundation  of  modern  life,  the 
skeleton,  the  flesh,  the  blood,  the  mind  and  the  heart  of 
society  —  was  decried  by  them.  Business  was  wrong,  and 
the  more  successful  the  business  the  more  wrong  it  was. 
"  Government  was  wrong,  even  though  it  was  a  gov- 
ernment established  by  the  people  themselves.  Everything 
was  wrong!  There  was  no  reverence  in  the  world,  no 
regard  for  brains  or  for  position,  no  matter  how  honestly 


THE  DAY  OF  FAITH  305 

that  position  was  won.  Men  were  not  as  good  as  each 
other;  they  were  better. 

"  How  could  such  a  world  endure  longer?  The  wisest 
minds  sounded  unheeded  warnings.  They  told  us  that 
civilization  was  rocking  to  a  fall.  Other  civilizations  had 
perished;  why  not  this  one?  Yet  the  cranks,  the  rad- 
icals, the  men  eaten  up  with  envy  of  their  betters  —  they 
sneered  at  the  warning,  or  said  that  our  civilization  was 
no  good,  that  it  would  better  be  destroyed  than  continue 
in  its  evil. 

"And  the  leaders  of  the  world,  knowing  that  these 
things  had  been  said  before,  and  that  civilization  and  an 
ordered  society  had  continued,  refused  to  heed  the  dan- 
ger signals  that  were  flown.  Only  I  saw,  clearly,  to  what 
the  world  was  coming.  And  so  —  I  headed  it  off." 

"  What  do  you  mean?  "  demanded  John. 

The  old  man  shrugged.  "  The  world  always  wants  an 
idea.  It  leaps  to  seize  at  panaceas.  One  moment  it  is 
a  tariff  that  will  make  a  nation  prosperous  and  happy. 
The  next  moment  it  is  free  trade.  One  day  it  is  a  re- 
public; the  day  before  it  was  a  monarchy.  But  always 
and  forever  one  idea  has  existed  and  will  exist  —  religion. 

"  To  gain  their  religion,  to  control  it,  to  own  it.  Then 
to  work  for  the  world " 

"  Or  have  the  world  work  for  you?  "  cried  the  young 
man. 

Again  his  father  shrugged.  "  Children,  my  son,  must 
be  set  tasks.  The  people  of  the  world  are  children. 
Some  one  must  set  the  tasks,  must  organize  them.  I 
knew,  my  son,  that  you  would  understand."  He  hesitated 
a  moment,  eyeing  the  younger  man.  "  That  you  would 
approve,"  he  added. 

As  quick  of  wit,  almost,  as  his  father,  was  John  An- 
stell.  Otherwise,  from  a  subtle  hint  and  from  the  words 
of  Mizler,  he  would  not  have  drawn  the  conclusions  which 


306  THE  DAY  OF  FAITH 

had  been  in  his  mind  when  he  entered  this  study.  Tramp- 
ing the  streets  of  the  city,  the  torture  of  doubt  had  slowly 
left  him,  leaving  him  susceptible  to  the  soothing  ointment 
of  ambition.  He  had  been  horrified,  was  still  horrified, 
but,  —  ambition  shrieked  aloud  to  him. 

"  Approve?  "  he  muttered. 

"  We  cannot  shirk  our  tasks,  the  tasks  that  have  been 
set  for  us ;  we  cannot  drop  the  burdens  from  our  shoulders. 
John,  my  son,  is  it  for  nothing  that  men  fought  their  way 
up  from  savagery,  from  kinship  with  the  beasts?  Is  it 
true  that  in  a  hundred  thousand  years  there  has  been 
no  progress?  Yet  the  radicals,  the  unrestful,  would  have 
had  us  believe  such  an  absurdity.  They  would  have  taken 
the  world  from  the  men  who  had  faith  in  the  integrity, 
the  ability,  of  the  past  and  the  present,  and  hope  for  the 
future. 

"  They  told  us  that  what  we  had  was  worthless,  and 
they  declared  that  they  would  destroy  it.  And  I,  seeing 
how  near  they  were  to  the  destruction  that  they  promised 
us  —  I  took  the  Hendricks  idea,  I  gave  it  to  the  world,  and 
—  did  I  do  wrong?  " 

John  Anstell  read  the  sophistry  in  every  word.  Yet 
louder  than  the  specious  words  was  the  call  of  ambition. 

"  I  don't  know,  Father,"  he  stammered. 

"Don't  know?  When  I  have  made  myself  ruler  of 
the  world,  and  you  are  my  heir?  And  3rou  don't  know?  " 

The  old  man  seemed  to  tower  above  the  form  of  his  son, 
although  he  still  sat,  leaning  negligently  back,  his  thin 
fingers  interlocked.  But  his  eyes  were  eager.  He  was 
making,  months  before  he  had  expected  to  do  so,  his  final 
argument,  his  strongest  plea. 

"  Ruler  of  the  world?  "  gasped  John. 

"  Ruler  of  the  world,"  pronounced  Michael  Anstell. 
"  Is  there  a  man  in  the  world  who  will  doubt  me  ?  Is 
there  a  legislature  that  will  refuse  me  a  request?  Is 


THE  DAY  OF  FAITH  307 

there  a  court  that  will  not  confirm  me  in  my  possessions? 
Is  there  a  man  that  dare  raise  his  voice  against  me? 
Against  me,  the  proponent  of  the  Day  of  Faith,  the  man 
that  made  it  possible? 

"  Listen,  my  son.  The  world  is  mad ;  it  always  will  be 
mad.  And  madmen,  though  weak,  may  destroy  the 
strong.  But  what  have  the  weak  ever  given  the  world? 
Has  not  everything  worth  while  been  forced  upon  the 
weak  by  the  strong?  You  know  that  it  has!  Now,  with 
the  world  rocking  to  disaster,  I  saw  a  way  to  save  it." 

Bewildered,  John  lifted  his  eyes  to  meet  his  father's 
burning  glance. 

"  Then  you  do  believe "  he  ventured. 

Old  Anstell  shook  his  head  impatiently.  "  To  save  the 
world,  I  said.  I  mean,  not  to  deliver  it  over  to  fanatics. 
Oh,  I  know  it  seems  that  it  has  been  delivered  over  to 
them,  but  —  I  know  better.  And  so  will  you.  Only  by 
the  more  firmly  emplacing  the  strong  in  their  position 
can  civilization,  the  ordered  society  for  which  millions 
have  died,  endure.  You  and  I,  John,  are  the  strong.  With 
no  one  in  the  world  to  doubt  us,  to  question  us,  can  we  not 
so  firmly  plant  the  present  social  order  that  it  will  endure 
for  ages  yet  to  come?  " 

His  son  gasped.     "  How?  " 

Michael  Anstell's  smile  was  not  a  pretty  thing  to  watch. 
"  How  ?  "  he  echoed.  "  As  has  been  already  done.  The 
people  are  fools,  idiots.  They  are  always  enslaved  by 
a  new  idea.  They  think  that  they  comprehend  a  new 
thought,  but  they  never  do.  I  have  watched  it  going 
slowly  mad  these  past  months,  have  encouraged  it  to 
grow  insane.  Because  a  worse  insanity  threatened  it,  an 
insanity  that  made  it  doubt  all  that  was  strong  and  bene- 
ficial in  our  times.  Now,  the  world  doubts  nothing,  and 
you  and  I " 

"  How  ?  "  repeated  John. 


308  THE  DAY  OF  FAITH 

The  teeth  of  Michael  Anstell  showed  in  a  wolf-like 
smile. 

"  By  acquiring,  or  controlling,  all  the  property  in  the 
world.  I  stand  in  a  supreme  position.  Only  Jane  May- 
nard  is  higher  in  the  world's  esteem,  and  she  will  be  your 
wife.  We  shall  own  the  earth,  acquire  the  land,  the 
transportation,  the  mines,  the  industries  —  everything. 
There  will  be  no  more  agitators,  no  more  strikes,  no  more 
periods  of  unproductiveness.  Thrift  and  industry  and 
brains  shall  rule  this  world,  as  always  they  have  ruled 
it.  But  no  longer  will  their  rule  be  threatened  by  half- 
witted radicals.  In  the  past,  if  I  acquired  a  bit  of  prop- 
erty, a  thousand  demagogues  denounced  me. 

"  But  who  dare  denounce  me  now?  Who  dare  de- 
nounce Michael  Anstell,  the  father  of  the  Day  of  Faith?  " 

He  paused.  Slowly  John  sank  back  in  his  chair.  He 
saw  the  great  and  evil  vision,  and  in  a  million  ways  it 
drew  him  to  it.  Power,  unlimited  power,  undreamed  of 
wealth ! 

"  But  the  people.     Will  they " 

His  father  laughed.  "  The  people?  The  ignorant 
dolts;  the  fools  who  swallow  whole  the  pill  that  I  pre- 
pared. My  son,  when  have  the  people  ever  waked  up, 
ever  understood?  What  have  their  churches  been  for, 
but  to  make  them  contented,  bow  the  more  readily  to  the 
yoke?  Have  the  people,  in  all  time,  ever  done  anything 
but  effect  an  exchange  of  masters?  Their  revolutions, 
their  social  awakenings  —  they  are  absurd.  But  we  — 
we  shall  give  them  the  only  government  that  they  should 
have:  a  benevolent  autocracy.  We  shall  let  them  go 
through  their  pitiful  functions  of  self-rule,  but  —  no  more. 
We  shall  rule.  And  your  sons  shall  rule.  Instead  of  a 
world  gone  mad  with  license,  we  shall  found  a  world  re- 
strained by  superior  minds " 


THE  DAY  OF  FAITH  309 

"Father,  you  talk  like  —  is  it  possible?  Won't  they 
find  out,  and ' 

"Find  out?"  Michael  Anstell's  laugh  was  robust, 
ringing.  "  When  have  they  ever  found  out?  Haven't 
their  creeds  exploited  them  for  thousands  of  years,  bid- 
ding them  accept  to-day's  burden  because  it  will  be  lifted 
to-morrow?  If  creeds  that  have  been  accepted  by  only 
a  comparatively  few  have  endured  for  centuries,  why 
should  not  mine,  that  has  been  accepted  by  all  the  world, 
endure  even  longer?  What  do  you  think,  John?  Or 
have  you  drunk  too  deeply  of  the  hogwash,  the  sentimental 
damn-foolishness,  that  the  rest  of  the  world  has  become 
intoxicated  upon?  Or  are  you  my  son,  my  own  son?  " 

John  Anstell's  answer  was  a  grip  of  his  father's  hand. 
He  was  the  son  of  Michael  Anstell,  who  would  help  his 
father  realize  his  great  dream,  the  greatest  since  Mahomet 
had  conquered  half  a  continent.  For  the  Bland  Hen- 
dricks  creed  had  at  the  start  seemed  silly,  futile  to  him. 
He  had  been  won  to  its  adherence  by  a  charming  smile, 
a  lithe  figure  and  a  mass  of  glorious  hair.  He  had  been 
won  by  no  arguments,  by  no  hope  within  him.  And  so, 
he  surrendered  to  greed  and  ambition. 

Outside  these  walls  a  freed  world  knew  at  last  what 
perfect  trust  could  mean.  The  safety  of  property,  of  the 
body,  of  the  mind  and  heart!  The  greatest  blow  in  be- 
half of  mankind  had  been  struck.  Another  blow  was  be- 
ing prepared,  this  one  to  be  launched  against  mankind. 


CHAPTER  XXXI 

THERE  is  no  sinner  so  great  but  that  he  finds  his  own 
self-justification.  From  Judas,  through  Benedict  Arnold 
to  Michael  Anstell,  the  great  betraj^ers  justify  themselves. 
They  have  their  reasons,  Avhich  they  advance  to  them- 
selves. But  the  time  comes  to  all  of  them  when  they 
must  look  at  their  naked  souls  and  know  exactly  what 
they  are.  The  reckoning  must  be  paid,  postpone  the  pay- 
ment though  they  may. 

It  had  taken  Christianity  nineteen  centuries  and  more 
to  arrive  at  the  Great  Tolerance,  for,  after  all,  the  Era 
of  Faith  meant  that  as  well  as  many  other  things.  Per- 
haps, indeed,  it  meant  that  more  than  anything  else. 

To  find  no  fault,  to  be  content,  to  be  happy And 

it  is  the  unsuspecting  victim  who  most  readily  succumbs. 

A  world  that  walked  in  a  daze,  in  a  hazy  cloud  of  kind- 
liness which  obscured  all  the  vices  until  men  felt  that  they 
no  longer  existed;  a  world  of  little  children,  into  whose 
hearts  doubt  could  not  enter,  whose  perfect  trust  was  the 
trust  of  babes ;  this  was  the  world  that  Michael  Anstell 
assaulted. 

Outwardly,  after  the  first  few  days,  the  world  looked 
much  the  same,  save  that  its  law  courts  were  deserted, 
its  prisons  emptied,  its  asylums,  freed  of  all  restraints, 
homes  instead  of  barricaded  places  of  confinement.  But 
the  trains  ran,  and  the  ships  sailed  and  the  airships  flew. 
Telegraph,  telephone  and  cable  knitted  men  together  as 
before.  Business  and  commerce  continued. 

But  the  difference,  though  not  entirely  visible  to  the 
physical  eye,  was  there.  The  absence  of  policemen,  the 


THE  DAY  OF  FAITH  311 

cessation  of  armed  preparation;  these  were  visible  to  the 
most  casual  observer.  But  the  things  that  really  counted 
might  not  at  first  have  been  apprehended  by  a  visitor  from 
another  planet,  beyond  the  remarkable  happiness  that 
seemed  on  every  face. 

For  no  longer  did  the  law  of  meum  and  tuum  dominate, 
the  world.  All  society  and  most  of  religion  had  grown 
out  of  the  observance  of  that  law,  and  now  it  was  dis- 
carded. Generosity  instead  of  greed;  this  was  the  great 
change.  A  purse  left  on  a  park  bench  was  there  when 
its  owner  returned.  No  doors  were  locked  in  this,  the 
Era  of  Faith. 

All  rivalries  had  broken  down.  Beyond  perfection 
there  is  no  height.  Without  jealousy  there  can  be  no 
rivalry,  save  the  generous  one  entered  into  for  the  pure 
joy  of  sportive  competition.  And  there  was  no  jealousy, 
either  of  individuals  or  of  nations. 

How  easy  of  solution,  in  those  first  few  days  of  the 
new  era,  were  found  the  problems  that  had  vexed  the  cen- 
turies. The  man  of  color  was  no  longer  hated;  nor  did 
he  hate.  He  had  no  desire  to  force  himself  upon  another 
race,  and  the  other  race  had  no  desire  to  repel  him. 
Each  kept  his  path,  confident  in  the  generous  good  faith 
of  the  other. 

There  were  bankrupt  nations  in  the  world,  who  had 
sought  by  every  device  to  avoid  the  payment  of  their  obli- 
gations. But  now  their  credit  was  restored,  for  there 
was  no  question  as  to  their  intention  to  pay.  There  were 
men  bankrupt,  too,  of  morals,  and  women  likewise.  But 
the  slate  was  cleaned,  without  a  mark  upon  its  surface. 

Those  inhibitions  which  fear  had  placed  upon  a  race; 
these  were  done  away  with.  The  much-discussed  Eigh- 
teenth Amendment  no  longer  bothered  men.  For  into 
the  world  had  come  restraint.  If  a  man  wanted  a  drink, 
his  neighbor  knew  that  satisfaction  of  that  want  would 


312  THE  DAY  OF  FAITH 

endanger  no  one.  Tobacco  and  the  other  mild  relaxa- 
tions were  not  banned.  Even  the  fanatic  knew  that  harm 
could  not  ensue. 

A  world  that,  because  it  considered  its  neighbor  per- 
fect, had  become  entirely  perfect,  so  far  as  man  could 
comprehend  the  meaning  of  that  word.  A  world  that 
sang  laudations  instead  of  hymns  of  hate.  .  .  . 

The  churches,  all  creeds,  continued.  Men  went  there 
to  worship  God.  But  outside,  in  the  broad  fields  and 
highways,  they  worshiped  man,  man  who  had  been  made 
in  the  image  of  God. 

The  visions  of  the  Utopians  had  become  a  reality  at 
last.  The  dream  of  the  martyrs,  the  hopes  of  the 
prophets  ;  these  mankind  knew  to-day. 

Auto-hypnosis?  Who  could  tell?  A  man  enters  a  re- 
vival meeting  and  in  three  minutes,  the  tears  streaming 
down  his  cheeks,  announces  that  he  is  converted.  We 
say  that  he  is  hypnotized  by  his  surroundings,  that  he 
could  not  overcome  the  emotional  circumstances.  But 
another  man,  after  three  years  of  study,  announces  his 
conversion  to  a  creed,  and  we  do  not  talk  of  hypnotism 
or  emotional  qualities  at  all.  Had  the  world  reached 
this  Era  of  Faith  by  a  conscious  effort  extending  over 
centuries?  But  perhaps  it  had.  Perhaps  this  Era  was 
the  goal  of  the  teachings  of  Christianity. 

It  had  taken  the  world  over  nineteen  centuries  of 
Christianity  to  build  this  edifice.  It  took  exactly  nine- 
teen days  for  Michael  Anstell  to  tear  it  down. 

For  on  the  nineteenth  day  one  of  his  secretaries  learned 
what  the  Anstells  were  doing.  What  three  men  know  is 
no  longer  a  secret.  By  to-morrow  a  dozen  knew,  and  then 
the  great  debacle  began. 

For  eighteen  days  the  Anstells  worked  feverishly.  Both 
of  them  believed  that  they  had  plenty  of  time,  all  the 
time  in  eternity.  But  greed  is  always  hurried,  always 


THE  DAY  OF  FAITH  313 

hot-blooded.  And  the  greed  of  all  the  world,  that  had 
passed  out  of  the  world's  heart,  seemed  to  have  done  so 
only  to  enter  the  hearts  of  the  Anstells,  father  and  son. 

John  Anstell  was  his  father's  son.  Dormant,  not  non- 
existent, had  been  those  traits  in  him  which  had  carried 
his  father  to  the  topmost  place  in  the  world's  finance. 
There  had  been,  in  his  life  thus  far,  no  incentive  to  work. 
His  father  had  so  much.  But  in  comparison  with  what 
the  world  held,  Michael  Anstell  possessed  so  little.  It 
was  John  who  urged  his  father  on,  not  the  other  way 
around. 

At  first,  the  loot  was  too  tremendous.  It  was  difficult 
to  make  a  choice.  But  this  did  not  deter  the  Anstells 
for  long. 

A  railroad  link  in  the  west,  acquisition  of  which  would 
give  the  Anstell-owned  lines  a  clear  dominion  over  that 
section  of  the  country,  was  their  first  booty.  It  was 
easily  done.  Michael  Anstell  had  a  bill  passed  through 
both  houses  of  Congress  and  signed  by  the  President 
within  five  days  after  the  celebration  of  the  Day  of  Faith. 
That  bill  nullified  the  Supreme  Court  decision  in  the  fa- 
mous Northern  Securities  Case.  The  stockholders  in  the 
small  road  were  invited  to  exchange  holdings.  The  An- 
stells not  merely  acquired  the  strip  of  road  they  desired, 
but  made,  to  boot,  several  million  dollars. 

The  Anstells  waited  a  week.  Not  a  murmur  of  criti- 
cism from  a  nation  that  was  chasing  rainbows.  Then, 
caution  thrown  overboard,  Michael  Anstell  boldly  ad- 
vanced his  great  scheme.  A  world  trust,  capitalized  in 
the  billions,  to  hold  all  the  property  in  the  world,  prac- 
tically, to  have  the  sanction  of  governments,  and  a  ma- 
jority of  its  shares  to  be  held  by  Michael  Anstell. 

He  had  dreamed  of  it  years  ago.  Its  uttermost  de- 
tails had  been  thought  out  by  him,  the  planning  being 
nothing  more  than  a  pleasant  mental  exercise  until  the 


314  THE  DAY  OF  FAITH 

possibility  of  a  Day  of  Faith  made  the  world  trust  also  a 
possibility. 

Now  he  put  it  boldly  into  execution.  He  could  ask 
nothing  which  a  world  would  not  gladly  give  to  him. 
Was  he  not  the  great  proponent  of  the  Day  of  Faith? 

By  cable,  the  world  was  made  acquainted  with  his  plan 
for  focusing  the  commerce  of  the  world  into  one  easily 
wielded  body.  America  gave  him  his  charter;  so  did 
Europe;  so  did  Asia  and  Africa  and  South  America.  To 
do  away  forever  with  commercial  rivalry,  with  the  possi- 
bility of  misunderstanding.  That  he  demanded  and  took 
more  than  half  was  not  observable  save  to  the  keenest 
eye,  and  the  keenest  eyes  had  faith  and  did  not  look.  A 
cunning  scheme  of  interlocking  holding  companies,  with 
small  directorates.  It  was  the  Federation  of  the  World, 
the  Parliament  of  Man,  apparently.  In  reality  it  was 
the  degradation,  the  enslavement  of  the  world.  It  turned 
the  world  over  as  his  bond  servant  to  Michael  Anstell. 

But  the  world,  reaping  the  blessings  of  an  actual  Chris- 
tianity, had  no  thought  of  this.  Its  neighbor  was  per- 
fect, and  that  meant  Michael  Anstell. 

Together,  working  night  and  day,  hardly  taking  a 
moment  off  for  any  purpose  whatsoever,  the  two  men, 
father  and  son,  worked  as  mortals  never  had  worked  be- 
fore. And  the  world  was  ready  to  give  what  they  asked. 
There  was  no  mentality  required  on  the  part  of  either 
Anstell;  nothing  but  a  Satanic  greed. 

On  the  morning  of  the  nineteenth  day,  so  smoothly 
had  the  ways  been  greased  for  them,  the  Anstells  re- 
ceived word  that  the  final  link  in  the  chain  had  been 
forged.  Now,  sooner  or  later,  but  inevitably,  the  world 
would  know  that  it  labored  or  idled  at  the  behest  of  the 
Anstells.  But  even  when  it  found  out,  they  feared  noth- 
ing. The  phrase,  "  My  neighbor  is  perfect,"  would  save 
them.  And  if  that  failed,  the  laws  could  be  revived. 


THE  DAY  OF  FAITH  315 

And  none  had  suspected.  Even  so  shrewd  a  person  as 
Judge  Galway  had  been  duped,  with  all  the  rest  of  the 
world.  Whenever  the  Anstclls  chose  to  tighten  their 
grasp,  the  world  would  be  milked.  Congratulating  each 
other,  making  further  plans,  deciding  that  it  was  unnec- 
essary to  do  anything  more,  the  two  men  were  incau- 
tious. Long  and  sustained  effort  made  them,  in  the  mo- 
ment of  victory,  relax,  drop  those  precautions  which  had 
been  so  vitally  necessary. 

So  it  was  that  a  clerk,  noiselessly  approaching  the  door 
behind  which  the  Anstells  gloated,  heard  words  that  al- 
most frightened  him. 

"  It's  settled,"  Michael  Anstell  was  saying  in  a  jubilant 
voice.  "  Not  a  train  or  a  ship  or  a  plane  or  a  motor  can 
move  without  bringing  tribute  to  us.  We  rule  the  world, 
my  son." 

John's  voice  was  equally  exultant.  "  And  they  won't 
find  it  out  -  -  " 

His  father's  laughter  was  harsh.  "  It  would  take  the 
shrewdest  minds  in  the  world  ten  years  to  begin  to  un- 
ravel what  we  have  done.  And  we  could  invoke  the  courts 
of  the  world  to  delay  them  longer.  And  the  world  has 
always  found  it  cheaper  to  surrender  to  men  of  genius 
than  to  oppose  them.  And  suppose  that  some  one  did 
suspect?  Who  would  listen  to  him,  much  less  believe  him? 
We  have  been  sanctioned  by  the  governments  of  every  na- 
tion in  the  world.  Nothing  short  of  a  world  revolution 
would  take  away  what  we  have  gained.  And  who,  preach- 
ing the  Hendricks  doctrine,  is  going  to  start  a  revolu- 
tion? Now,  to-morrow,  we'll  sell  some  of  the  world  trust, 
make  the  price  lower " 

His  son's  laughter  mingled  with  his.  Outside,  the 
clerk's  hand  dropped  to  his  side.  He  tiptoed  away  from 
the  door  without  knocking.  He  had  come,  bringing  with 


316  THE  DAY  OF  FAITH 

him  a  sheaf  of  certificates  in  the  new  world  trust,  termed 
the  Universal  Production  Company. 

Several  rooms  beyond  the  billionaire's  private  office  the 
young  clerk  sat  down  at  his  desk.  His  ears  had  not  de- 
ceived him.  He  had  not  meant  to  listen,  but  had  paused 
at  the  sound  of  voices,  fearful  lest  he  intrude  upon  an  im- 
portant conference.  The  door,  slightly  ajar,  had  per- 
mitted him  to  hear  —  sacrilege,  blasphemy  !  It  was  no 

less,  and  yet His  ears  had  not  deceived  him.  The 

Day  of  Faith  had  been  a  monumental  scheme  to  enrich, 
further,  the  already  Croesus-like  Anstells. 

The  young  man  was  not  of  the  stuff  of  which  heroes  are 
made.  His  first  impulse,  to  disbelieve  his  ears,  was  fol- 
lowed by  the  impulse  to  rush  in  and  destroy  the  mon- 
sters who  mocked  the  world.  But  a  third  impulse  came 
to  him.  The  Anstells  were  going  to  sell  "  short  "  to- 
morrow, to  reduce  the  price  of  these  shares  which  they 
coveted. 

Business  still  went  on.  There  were  already  men  who 
said  that  the  establishment  of  the  Universal  Trust  would 
abolish  all  the  petty  and  mean  —  though  they  did  not  use 
these  terms  —  trading  in  the  world,  and  the  world  was 
listening  to  their  words.  But  the  stock  market  still  did 
business,  and  to  the  stock  market  went  the  clerk.  He 
first  drew  his  savings  from  the  bank  and  then  sold  "  short  '* 
a  thousand  shares  of  Universal.  Then  he  went  home,  to 
struggle  in  loneliness  with  himself. 

That  night  he  raved  in  a  nightmare;  he  awoke  in  a 
fever.  A  doctor,  called  in,  listened  to  his  words.  He  was 
a  venal  man,  and  the  next  morning  he,  too,  sold  "  short  " 
in  Universal.  He  had  a  friend  to  whom  he  was  under 
obligation.  For  virtue's  rewards  are  too  intangible. 
Happiness  was  not  enough.  Beneath  the  new-found  vir- 
tue of  the  world  slumbered  the  old  Giant  of  Greed.  Kind 


THE  DAY  OF  FAITH  317 

words  spread  slowly ;  evil  ones  travel  on  the  wings  of  the 
night.  So  virtue  is  outpaced  by  evil. 

A  world  had  found  content  and  happiness  and  freedom 
from  the  old  ills.  Even  the  ills  of  the  body,  because  they 
had  been  rendered  negligible  by  the  peace  in  the  world, 
had  become  almost  non-existent.  The  miracle  of  Lacy 
Parker's  daughter  had  been  followed  by  thousands  more 
since  the  Great  Affirmation.  Yet,  with  all  this,  the  world 
was  ready  to  be  corrupted  by  an  evil  example. 

So,  in  Eden,  with  all  that  heart  could  want,  Adam  fell. 
—  Here,  in  this  newer  Eden,  man  after  man  learned  of 
the  Aristell  scheme  —  and  fell ! 

Subtly,  in  whisperings,  the  word  went  forth  that  the 
Anstells  were  not  sincere,  that  the  Day  of  Faith  was  like 
other  promises  made  to  the  suffering  world,  made  to  be 
broken.  Men  could  not  see  that  it  was  their  own  faith 
that  wavered,  that  the  Anstells  did  not  matter.  Men 
only  knew  that  they  had  been  deceived,  somehow.  For 
truth  is  not  so  important,  in  the  eyes  of  men,  as  its  ex- 
ponents. 

.  Yegg  Darby,  living  decently,  honestly,  for  the  first 
time  in  his  life  working,  heard  the  rumors  that  spread 
like  wildfire  over  the  city,  the  State,  the  nation,  the  world. 
He  was  of  the  weakest,  the  most  venal  class  in  the  old 
world,  before  the  new  world  had  made  all  men  alike. 

Yegg  Darby,  like  all  the  world,  had  heard  the  truth, 
and  the  truth  had  set  him  free,  free  from  the  old  skulking 
ways,  the  hatred  of  his  fellows,  the  suffering  of  their 
hatred.  He  did  not  know  that  the  truth  was  the  truth, 
that  nothing  can  change  it,  that  it  has  always  existed  and 
can  never  die.  He  only  knew  that  a  truth  had  been  im- 
posed upon  him,  unasked,  and  that  it  had  been  done  so 
through  no  regard  for  him,  but  for  selfish  reasons  only. 
For  he  didn't  question  the  reliability  of  the  rumor.  The 
world  never  questions  evil  report ;  it  accepts  it. 


318  THE  DAY  OF  FAITH 

The  world  had  been  changed,  but  the  change  was  as 
lasting  as  the  heart  of  man,  and  the  heart  of  man  meant 
the  hearts  of  all  men.  Evil  needs  only  the  slightest  foot- 
hold to  make  itself  conqueror  of  mankind.  It  had  a  foot- 
hold now  in  the  hearts  of  the  Anstells,  had  crept  from 
them  to  the  clerk,  to  the  doctor,  to  the  doctor's  friend 
and  his  further  friends,  and  so  out  from  the  byways  into 
the  main  roads,  until,  daring,  it  lifted  its  dreadful  head 
for  men  to  see  and  recognize  and  —  welcome. 

For  Yegg  Darby  welcomed  it.  Until  to-day  he  had 
been  suddenly  happy,  glorying  in  his  new-found  rehabili- 
tation, in  his  equality  with  his  equals.  But  now  his  daily 
work  seemed  drear,  drab.  Why  should  he  bother  with 
eight  hours'  toil,  when  there  were  easier  ways? 

One  of  those  easier  ways  occurred  to  him  at  once.  In 
the  Foundation,  on  Carey  Street,  there  were  five  hundred 
dollars. 

The  streets  through  which  Darby  passed,  late  that 
night,  were  not  as  they  had  been  these  past  few  weeks. 
For  men,  instead  of  mingling  freely,  were  furitive,  hung 
in  jealous  groups.  The  example  of  evil  was  spreading. 
None  yet  openly  denied  the  Great  Creed,  but  fewer  pro- 
nounced it  with  their  lips,  agreed  with  it  in  their  hearts. 
Suspicion  had  come  back  into  the  world,  as  when  the  sun 
is  suddenly  obscured  and  a  long-forgotten  fog  comes  back, 
chilling  the  marrow,  bringing  disease. 

Yegg  Darby  had  been  proudly  walking  the  middle  of 
the  sidewalk.  Now  he  slunk  along  close  to  the  wall,  fear- 
ful of  every  casual  glance ;  he  had  been  as  a  god ;  now  he 
was  as  a  beast  again.  And  so  he  reached  the  Foun- 
dation. 

Jane  Maynard  had  seen  little  of  John  Anstell  these 
past  days.  She  understood  that  he  was  engaged  on  mat- 
ters important  for  the  permanent  establishment  of  the 


THE  DAY  OF  FAITH  319 

new  regime  in  the  world,  and  moreover,  she  was  busied 

.   O  x  * 

herself. 

The  town  of  Leland  had  taken  a  great  pride  in  that 
it  was  the  birthplace  and  home  of  Bland  Hendricks.  It 
had  slain  him  for  an  idea  of  which  it  had  disapproved. 
But  now  that  it  approved  his  idea,  that  the  world  ap- 
proved it,  it  paid  him  honor. 

Jane  had  attended  the  services  in  commemoration  of 
the  founder  of  the  new  creed.  Once  back  in  Leland,  it 
had  been  restful,  after  the  labors  of  the  past  months, 
to  spend  some  time  there,  resting  among  her  old  friends. 
That  the  town  honored  her  as  it  had  never  honored  any 
other  citizen  meant  nothing.  But  that  her  old  friends 
were  glad  to  see  her  meant  much.  She  had  left  them  under 
a  cloud,  mental  and  spiritual.  To  return  and  be  met 
with  warm  affection  —  it  was  worth  while.  Also,  there 
had  been  other  matters. 

She  had  telegraphed  John  Anstell  the  hour  of  her  ar- 
rival. But  a  wreck  delayed  her  train.  It  was  after 
midnight  when  she  alighted  in  New  York,  and  John  met 
her  in  the  station.  Those  other  matters  which  had  oc- 
cupied her  thoughts  had  been  mainly  John  Anstell.  Did 
she  love  him?  Somehow,  lately,  she  had  been  wondering. 

At  sight  of  him,  his  clean  youth,  she  berated  herself 
for  her  recent  doubts.  Why  had  she  doubted  her  affec- 
tion for  him?  She  was  glad  to  see  him,  and  couldn't  an- 
swer. Yet,  in  the  car  on  the  way  to  the  Foundation,  she 
avoided  his  lips,  while  thoughts  of  Barnett  crowded  into 
her  mind.  She  had  no  thought  that  she  loved  Barnett, 
but  —  she  was  restless,  fearful  of  herself.  And  so  it 
was  a  rather  piqued  young  man  who  accompanied  her 
into  the  Foundation.  Great  plans,  to  which  Jane  was 
secondary,  occupied  him  now,  but  still  —  he  loved  her. 
And  wanted  her. 

So  he  followed  her  into  the  assembly  room  and  groped 


320  THE  DAY  OF  FAITH 

for  her  in  the  darkness.  But  she  evaded  him,  puzzled  at 
her  own  action,  and  turned  on  the  light.  And  then  she 
screamed.  For  the  money,  the  symbolic  money,  that 
should  have  been  on  the  table,  was  gone! 


CHAPTER  XXXII 

ONLY  once  she  screamed ;  then,  her  eyes  frightened,  her 
cheeks  and  throat  white,  and  her  body  trembling,  she 
stared  at  young  Anstell.  For  a  moment  he  met  her  glance. 
The  color  had  fled  from  his  cheeks  also,  and  in  his  eyes 
stood  something  akin  to  fear.  But  he  mastered  himself 
quickly.  These  past  weeks  had  made  him  the  fit  son  of 
his  father,  swift  to  meet  emergency  and  conquer  it. 

He  had  lifted  his  hand  as  Jane  screamed ;  in  obedience 
to  that  silent  command  she  was  silent.  Staring  at  each' 
other,  the  horror-stricken  girl  and  the  alert  youth,  be- 
tween them  was  fought  the  battle  of  the  ages,  the  battle 
between  Good  and  Evil.  Neither  of  them  knew  of  the 
battle,  yet  it  was  being  fought. 

Slowly  Anstell's  fingers  went  to  his  lips;  he  nodded 
meaningly  to  Jane  and  tiptoed  to  the  door.  He  closed 
it  softly.  Then  he  turned  back  to  her. 

"  It's  all  right,"  he  said  soothingly. 

"  All  right  ?  "  the  girl  looked  at  him,  uncomprehending. 

He  nodded.     "  Nobody  heard  you ;  nobody  will  know.'* 

"  Nobody  will  know?  "  she  echoed. 

He  nodded  again,  this  time  with  emphasis.  "  That's 
it.  You  don't  want  it  known,  do  you?  Besides,"  he 
added  quickly,  warned  by  a  flash  in  her  violet  eyes,  "  it 
may  be  around  here,  may  have  fallen  to  the  floor " 

But  they  both  knew  better.  The  book  which  had 
weighted  the  money  in  its  place  was  lying,  half-opened, 
at  the  far  end  of  the  table.  It  took  no  imagination  to 
visualize  the  lean,  greedy  hand  that  had  pushed  it  hastily 
aside. 


THE  DAY  OF  FAITH 

Jane  shook  her  head.  A  sob  came  from  her  throat. 
"  It's  been  —  stolen !  "  She  hesitated  over  the  last  word, 
then  it  came  forth,  pregnant  with  horror. 

Anstell  shrugged.  "  Impossible.  Who,  in  all  the 
world " 

She  stopped  him  with  raised  hands,  a  gesture  of  de- 
spair. "  I've  felt  something  —  these  past  days  —  I  can't 
believe  —  my  neighbor  is  perfect.  I  know  it,  but " 

The  world  had  held  faith  in  goodness,  and  that  faith 
had  conquered  mankind.  But  doubt  had  crept  in.  For 
concrete  facts  will  destroy  a  faith  not  builded  in  the  very 
foundation  of  the  heart.  The  faith  that  had  come  to 
the  world  had  been  implanted  there;  it  had  not  grown 
there  from  the  seedling.  Doubt  could  not  be  around 
her  without  affecting  her.  She  sank  down  into  a  chair 
and  covered  her  eyes  with  her  hands.  For  she  had  vi- 
sion. She  knew  that  the  Great  Dream  was  ending,  that 
the  bitter  awakening  was  at  hand. 

How  she  knew  it  she  could  not  have  told;  any  more 
than,  months  ago,  she  could  have  told  what  she  intended, 
what  she  hoped,  when  she  opened  the  Foundation  on  Carey 
Street.  For  we  may  think  that  we  act  in  accordance 
with  the  instructions  of  our  intellect,  the  desires  of  our 
will ;  but  we  do  not  think  correctly.  Within  us,  master- 
ing us,  are  the  impulses  of  a  thousand  ancestors,  the  be- 
liefs, the  hopes,  the  faiths  of  them  all,  working  upon  the 
clay  of  our  minds  to  mold  them  as  they  will.  We  do  not 
act ;  we  react,  and  what  may  cause  the  reaction  we  cannot 
tell.  But  through  the  centuries  man  has  hoped,  has 
prayed,  and  bitter  disillusion  has  been  his  reward.  So 
we  to-day,  in  advance  of  the  fact,  hope  for  the  best  but 
fear,  and  sometimes  know,  the  worst. 

"  Of  course  he  is.  This  money,"  cried  Anstell. 
"What  does  it  matter?  It's  only  a  symbol;  it  means 
nothing " 


THE  DAY  OF  FAITH  323 

"  Nothing?  "  Jane's  hands  came  down  from  her  eyes. 
"  It  stands  for  -  -  " 

"  But  what  it  stands  for  hasn't  been  injured,"  cried 
Anstell.  "  What  does  a  symbol  count  for  when  the  truth 
itself  still  endures?  " 

"  But  the  symbol  is  the  truth  and "  Jane  ceased. 

Anstell  took  her  pause  for  yielding  to  his  suddenly  con- 
ceived argument. 

"  It  represents  the  truth,  that's  all,"  said  John.  "  All 
we  have  to  do  is  put  other  bills  in  place  of  those  that  are 
gone.  And  we'll  do  it  right  now." 

He  put  his  hand  in  his  pocket  and  drew  forth  a  narrow 
billfold.  He  had  the  money  out,  was  placing  it  upon  the 
table,  when  Jane  spoke. 

"  You  —  you'd  do  —  that?  "  she  asked.  Her  voice  was 
husky,  tremulous. 

He  eyed  her.  "  Why  not  ?  If  it  gets  out  that  this 
money  has  been  taken,  people  will  know  that  a  thief  is 
in  the  world.  You  don't  want  that." 

"  They'll  know  it  anyway,"  said  Jane. 

"  How?  "  demanded  Anstell. 

"  Can  such  a  thing  be  hidden  ?  "  she  countered. 

"Why  not?  I  won't  tell,  and  you  won't  tell.  Be- 
cause just  one  person  has  proved  false  to  the  new  ideal 
doesn't  mean  anything.  Does  it?  "  he  challenged. 

"  It  means  everything,"  she  replied.  "  Because  if  our 
faith  is  not  universal,  it  is  nothing.  If  one  disbelieves, 
then  disbelief  is  not  conquered  and  faith  has  not  won." 

He  smiled  at  her.  "  Jane,  you're  tired.  It's  been  a 
hard  journey,  slow,  tedious.  You're  not  yourself.  When 
you've  slept  —  here !  "  On  the  table  he  carefully  placed 
the  bills  and  upon  them  laid  the  book.  "  There,"  he  said 
triumphantly.  "  Just  the  same  as  it  ever  was !  " 

"The  same?"  she  breathed.     "Can  you  say  that?" 

"Why  not?"  he  asked. 


324  THE  DAY  OF  FAITH 

Her  gentle  eyes  were  suddenly  hot  with  wrath.  "  Some- 
where in  the  city,  John,  is  a  man  who  has  broken  away 
from  the  faith.  Doesn't  that,  in  itself,  change  every- 
thing? " 

She  was  tired,  unreasonable,  and  —  a  woman.  Women 
were  things  oddly  compounded  of  shrewd  common  sense 
and  hysteria.  It  was  woman  who  had  supported,  through 
the  centuries,  the  soothsayers  and  the  fortune  tellers. 
Woman  could  not  deal  with  a  situation  logically ;  she 
could  meet  it  only  impulsively.  Jane  was  doing  this  now. 
So,  soothingly,  Anstell  smiled.  He  put  a  hand  upon  her 
shoulder. 

t  "  Of  course  not,  you  dear  silly  thing,"  he  laughed.  "  As 
if  one  man  could  change  the  destiny  of  the  world.  Why, 
if  a  thousand  broke  away,  it  would  do  no  harm." 

She  breathed  deeply,  and  the  movement  of  her  shoulder 
might  have  seemed  the  unconscious  act  of  respiration. 
But  it  caused  Anstell's  hand  to  drop  away  from  her.  And 
when  he  would  have  touched  her  again,  she  had  moved 
her  chair  slightly  back. 

"  No  harm?  "  she  said  bitterly.  "  Where,  then,  would 
our  faith  be?" 

"  A  billion  people  would  still  have  it,"  he  retorted. 
i       "  A  billion  people  had  faith  before  the  Day  of  Faith," 
she  said.     "  But  did  their  faith  abolish  the  prisons,  the 
making  of  munitions,  the  police,  the  law,  the  armies  and 
navies  of  the  world?" 

"  But  they  are  abolished,"  said  Anstell.  "  They  can't 
come  back." 

"  Can't  come  back?  To  a  world  in  which  a  thief  wan- 
ders ?  The  thing  that  drove  them  away  was  faith.  With 
faith  gone,  what  barrier  will  keep  them  away  ?  " 

"  But  faith  isn't  gone ;  that's  what  I'm  telling  you," 
he  said.  "  One  man  may  have  lost  it,  but  —  what  does 
that  matter?  " 


THE  DAY  OF  FAITH  325 

"  I,  too,  have  lost  it,"  she  said. 

"You?" 

She  shrugged  wearily.  "  Why  not  ?  That  money, 
which  all  these  months  has  been  inviolate,  has  been  stolen. 
Can  I  have  faith  in  the  man  who  took  it?  " 

"  He  may  return  it,"  said  Anstell. 

"  But  how  could  he  take  it?  What  brought  forth  his 
greed,  his  dishonesty?  " 

"  What  conquered  that  greed  ?  "  demanded  Anstell. 
"  The  Day  of  Faith.  Won't  that  spirit  reconquer  him?  " 

"  The  world,"  said  Jane,  "  must  be  reconquered,  then. 
Oh,  don't  you  see?  While  one  man,  in  all  the  world,  re- 
fused to  adhere,  the  conquest  was  not  achieved !  We  only 
thought  it  was,  and  — 

"You  mustn't  think  like  this,"  said  Anstell.  "Who 
knows  ?  The  one  man.  And  he'll  repent,  come  back  here. 
Meanwhile,  my  money  will  be  here;  no  one  will  know." 

"  You'd  have  me  deceive  the  people?  "  she  asked. 

"  Deceive  is  an  ugly  word,"  objected  Anstell.  "  For 
their  own  good,  withhold  the  information  from  them." 

She  rose  suddenly.  "  I'm  tired,"  she  said.  "  And  I'm 
silly  and  —  let  me  think  about  it." 

His  arms  went  toward  her,  but  she  evaded  him.  "  Not 
to-night  —  please,"  she  said. 

"  But,  Jane,"  he  protested.  "  I  haven't  seen  you  — 
for  so  long.  Don't  you  —  care  —  any  more?  " 

"  I  don't  know,"  she  told  him. 

"You  don't  know?  "  he  exclaimed. 

She  gazed  at  him.  "  John,  do  you  believe  in  the  Hen- 
dricks  creed?  " 

His  color  rose  slightly,  but  he  met  her  eyes. 

"  Of  course,"  he  answered.     "  Haven't  I  proved  that?  " 

'  You  believe  that  your  neighbor  is  perfect?  "  she  in- 
sisted. 

"  Why,  yes,"  he  replied. 


326  THE  DAY  OF  FAITH 

"  Then  why  do  you  suggest  deceiving  him?  Yes,  de- 
ceiving. You  say  the  word  is  ugly,  but  the  act  is  uglier 
still.  Why? " 

"  Because,"  he  answered,  "  I  would  not  break  down  the 
faith  of  a  world." 

She  pondered  his  statement.  Slowly  she  shook  her 
head.  "  Good  night,  John,"  she  said. 

He  stared  at  her.  There  was  a  finality  about  her  ut- 
terance that  warned  him.  To-night  she  was  in  a  nervous, 
high-strung  mood.  To-morrow  she  would  be  different, 
amenable  to  reason.  Since  that  first  meeting  when  he 
had  suddenly  kissed  her,  there  had  been  no  disagreement 
between  them.  All  lovers  must  have  quarrels ;  they  could 
expect  to  be  no  exception  to  the  universal  rule.  He  would 
leave  her,  until  she  had  had  time  to  think. 

She  sat  down  again  after  he  had  left,  staring  at  the 
money  which  he  had  placed  upon  the  table.  Was  she 
idolatrous?  Was  she  placing  a  symbol  above  the  thing 
for  which  the  symbol  stood?  Was  John  right?  The 
faith  of  a  world,  he  had  said.  He  would  not  break  it 
down.  Therefore,  to  preserve  that  faith,  he  would  de- 
ceive the  world.  Was  it  right? 

Ah,  but  if  she  conceded  that  it  was  right,  did  she  not 
then  deny  all  that  the  Great  Idea  stood  for?  For  the 
new  thing  that  had  come  into  the  world  was  based  on 
truth,  and  nothing  but  the  truth.  To  permit  a  falsehood 

to  creep  in Were  falsehoods  ever  justified?  Was 

one  right  in  advancing  false  evidence  to  protect  a  good 
idea?  Ah,  wasn't  she  now  dallying  with  blasphemies? 
The  ancient  priests  of  the  discarded  worships  of  thou- 
sands of  years  ago  had  doubtless  believed  in  the  truth 
of  the  philosophies  which  they  preached.  But  their  be- 
lief had  not  prevented  them  from  imposing  false  miracles 
.upon  their  followers.  The  truth,  they  had  decided,  could 
not  stand  alone. 


THE  DAY  OF  FAITH  327 

Jane  suddenly  came  to  this  comprehension.  The  truth 
could  stand  alone  if  it  were  the  truth.  The  truth  needed 
no  lies  to  prove  its  truth.  Such  paradoxes  were  for  venal 
profiteers,  hypocritically  wearing  the  livery  of  religion. 
They  were  not  for  one  who  believed.  The  truth  could 
stand  alone.  For  her  to  think,  even  for  one  moment,  of 
lifting  lying  hands  to  bolster  up  the  truth  was  blas- 
phemous, as  blasphemous  as  the  acts  of  those  proponents 
of  forgotten  creeds  who  called  their  gods  before  the  mul- 
titude to  work  their  manufactured  obscene  miracles. 

She  could  not  do  it.  She  would  not  do  it.  Not  to 
break  down  the  faith  of  the  world,  John  Anstell  had  said. 
But  to  lie,  to  permit  a  falsehood  to  be  used,  even  by  im- 
plication, to  bolster  up  that  faith.  .  .  . 

Hours  later  she  fell  asleep.  But  she  had  decided.  She 
would  be  faithful  to  herself.  With  that  clairvoyance 
which  is  faith,  and  which  had  enabled  her  to  foresee  dimly 
the  road  before  her  when  she  had  left  the  rest  cure  on 
the  Hudson,  so  now  she  saw,  gleaming  brilliantly,  the 
pinions  of  victory  shining  above  the  tawdr}7  wings  of  de- 
feat. For  truth  may  not  be  apparent  to  all ;  it  may  van- 
ish from  the  minds  of  most;  but  somewhere  in  the  world 
it  still  exists,  and  its  mere  existence  makes  it  mighty. 

But  she  did  not  have  to  come  to  any  decision  as  to  her 
action.  The  world  did  that  for  her.  Yegg  Darby  had 
stolen  the  symbolic  money.  He  spent  it  that  same  night. 
For  into  his  heart  had  crept  a  self-horror  that  could  be 
obliterated,  he  thought,  in  only  one  way. 

The  New  Era  had  not  yet  had  time  to  change,  out- 
wardly, the  things  of  the  past.  The  low  grog  shops,  for- 
bidden by  the  law,  had  been  closed.  But  they  could  be 
opened.  An  evil  suggestion  met  as  swift  a  response  as, 
nineteen  days  ago,  a  noble  suggestion  had  encountered. 
Yegg  Darby  had  found  a  bartender  who  possessed  the 
keys  to  his  old  place  of  business.  A  day  ago,  before  the 


328  THE  DAY  OF  FAITH 

new  doubt  had  seeped  into  the  world,  he  might  have  had 
difficulty  in  overcoming  the  scruples  of  the  man.  But  we 
are  all  one  Eve,  one  Adam;  parts  of  the  whole,  and  re- 
sponsive, each  of  us,  to  what  affects  the  other  parts. 
Darby  drank  and  talked! 

Men  had  gone  to  bed  imbued  with  the  new  idea.  They 
awoke  like  snarling  beasts,  prepared  to  rend  the  neigh- 
bor whom  but  yesterday  they  had  loved. 

As  during  the  Bloody  Years  a  plague  swept  over  the 
world,  during  the  night  entering  into  healthy  communi- 
ties and  by  morning  making  it  a  place  of  dread  disease, 
so  the  evil  swept  through  the  minds  of  men.  It  was  no 
different  in  its  universality  from  the  great  plague  that 
had  taken  twenty  million  victims  during  the  Bloody  Years. 
That  plague  had  come  unheralded,  unwarning.  Those 
who  believed  in  the  rule  of  the  mind  had  deemed  that 
plague  to  be  due  to  man's  wrong  thinking.  But  it  had 
been  a  new  disease,  unknown  to  medical  science.  How 
had  whole  nations  managed  to  think  of  a  non-existent 
disease?  Who  had  thought  of  it  first?  Why,  with  a 
whole  world  thinking  of  it  at  length,  did  it  disappear 
from  the  world? 

So  now,  in  the  night,  skulking,  came  evil,  the  evil  that 
had  been  banished  from  the  world.  Men  did  not  have  to 
be  told  that  the  New  Era  was  now  the  old  one,  and  the 
old  one  had  come  back  to  its  own.  It  was  apparent  on 
every  face.  For  even  thos£  who  held  to  faith  held  to  it 
as  desperate  men,  engulfed  in  the  sea,  hang  to  a  plank. 
Hopeless,  despairing.  .  .  . 

Tom  Barnett  arose  in  the  morning,  conscious  of  a 
disturbing  night,  such  a  restless  period  of  slumber  as  he 
had  not  known  since  the  world  had  uttered  the  Great 
Affirmation.  He  didn't  know  what  was  wrong.  Only  a 
few  in  all  the  world  knew ;  but  something 

He  turned  distastefully  away  from  breakfast,  dressed 


THE  DAY  OF  FAITH  329 

hurriedly  and  left  the  house.  He  was  vaguely  conscious 
that  the  Great  Peace  was  not  in  evidence  this  morning, 
that  a  Great  Restlessness  possessed  him. 

His  name  was  known  to  millions  now.  His  face  was 
known  to  thousands.  And  as  he  came  down  the  short 
flight  of  steps  to  the  sidewalk,  one  of  those  thousands, 
who  lounged  upon  a  corner,  saw  him.  His  voice  lifted 
in  a  jeer. 

"  Here's  one  of  the  old  perfection  kids,"  he  cried.  His 
companions  took  up  the  jeer. 

Amazed,  Tom  stopped.     Horror  gripped  his  heart. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  he  demanded. 

"  Mean  ?  "  echoed  the  first  speaker.  "  We  mean  we  got 
your  number,  you  faker.  You  and  all  the  rest  of  the 
big  bums  that  been  trimmin'  us." 

"  Trimming  you?  In  God's  name,  how?  "  asked  Bar- 
nett. 

"  We  ain't  tumbled  to  that  yet,  but  hell !  Here  for 
three  weeks  we  been  gassin'  about  perfection,  but  wages 
ain't  gone  up  any,  have  they?  Where  do  we  come  in,  we 
common  folks,  on  your  great  scheme?  I  got  my  rent  bill 
this  morning,  and  it  ain't  any  lower  than  it  was  a  month 
ago,  and  my  pay  ain't  gone  up." 

There  was  more,  but  Tom  didn't  wait  to  hear  it.  He 
ran  to  a  taxi-stand  down  the  street  and  entered  a  ma- 
chine. He  gave  the  Foundation's  address.  His  chauf- 
feur looked  at  him  curiously. 

"  There's  a  heluva  mob  down  there,"  he  said.  "  I  took 
an  old  gent  down  there  a  while  ago.  Lots  of  folks  hangin' 
around  there,  gettin'  the  gal  who  started  all  this  perfec- 
tion stuff  to  talk  to  them.  She  got  'em  buffaloed  all 
right,  though.  She's  a  clever  one." 

"  Clever  one?  Don't  you  believe  in  her?  In  the  new 
idea  ?  "  demanded  Tom. 

The  chauffeur  winked  at  him.     "  Do  you,  kid?     Aw,  it 


330  THE  DAY  OF  FAITH 

was  good  dope  for  a  little  while,  but  hell  —  after  all, 
who  got  it  up  ?  Old  Anstell,  the  billionaire.  You  couldn't 
expect  a  lot  of  good  to  come  out  of  a  rotten  egg  like 
that,  could  you?  " 

"  What's  happened?  "  demanded  Tom. 

"What  happened  three  weeks  ago?"  countered  the 
chauffeur. 

"  We  awoke  to  the  truth,"  said  Tom. 

"  Is  that  so  ?  "  said  the  chauffeur,  throwing  in  the 
clutch.  "  Well,  then  we  all  went  to  sleep,  and  now  we 
woke  up  again." 

The  grinding  of  his  gears  ended  the  argument. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII 

ON  the  Day  of  Faith  thousands  had  crowded  into  Carey 
Street  to  render  homage  to  the  great  idea  and  to  its 
great  proponent,  Jane  Maynard.  Barnett,  wheeling 
around  a  corner  and  entering  the  humble  street  which 
had  been  purified  by  fire,  on  which  stood  the  remodeled 
building  which  had  been  the  place  of  gestation  of  the 
Great  Idea,  saw  again  a  throng  of  people. 

The  taxi  slowed  down  to  avoid  injuring  the  pedestrians, 
and  Barnett  had  opportunity  to  see  their  faces.  They 
were  changed;  on  that  day  a  few  weeks  ago  exaltation, 
a  spiritual  uplifting  that  touched  sublimity,  had  been 
visible  on  every  face.  To-day  he  could  see  doubt,  and 
behind  doubt  a  mighty  wrath  struggling  dumbly  for  ex- 
pression. 

He  sank  back  on  his  seat,  —  bewildered,  dazed,  awed. 
In  that  mental  state  he  reached  the  Foundation.  Be- 
fore it  the  crowd  milled  to  and  fro.  None  of  that  kind- 
liness of  yesterday  was  observable.  Men  pushed  and 
struck.  As  Barnett  paid  his  driver  and  crossed  the  side- 
walk, a  murmur  came  from  the  throats  of  the  crowd. 
One  could  not  call  it  menacing,  and  yet 

He  found  Jane  in  the  main  hall.  With  her  was  Mor- 
ton Anderson.  On  the  face  of  Jane's  uncle  was  written 
perplexity ;  on  Jane's  he  read  despair. 

"What's  happened?"   demanded  Barnett. 

For  answer  Jane  gestured  toward  the  table.  Barnett 
whistled  softly. 

"Stolen?  "he  asked. 


332  THE  DAY  OF  FAITH 

Anderson  nodded  heavily.  "  But  I've  told  Jane  not  to 
take  it  too  seriously,  not  to ' 

Wanly  the  girl  smiled.  "  You've  seen  the  crowds,  Mr. 
Barnett?" 

Barnett  nodded. 

"  Then  you  know  that  —  it's  over,"  she  said. 

Barnett  sat  down  and  stared  at  her.  Vaguely  he 
heard  her  uncle  protesting  that  she  was  mistaken,  wrong. 
But  Barnett  knew  better.  Cynic,  unbeliever  and  scoffer 
he  had  been.  And  he  had  been  converted  to  the  Hen- 
dricks  creed.  Not  because  of  what  had  happened  to  him 
on  the  night  he  had  come  to  jeer.  That  miracle  of  heal- 
ing, if  such  it  could  be  termed,  had  not  been  permanent. 
He  was  still  slightly  lame,  as  lame  as  always  he  had  been. 
That  happening  had  made  him  think,  and  thinking  had 
made  him  believe. 

For  the  teachings  of  Christianity,  he  had  come  to  un- 
derstand, comprehended  man's  only  way  of  escape  from 
the  dreadful  tangle  in  which  he  was  involved.  Those 
teachings,  he  believed,  had  never  been  practiced.  And 
yet  they  seemed,  amazingly  practicable  to  him.  So  he 
had  come  to  believe. 

But  he  had  studied;  one  who  is  a  reporter  comes  into 
a  contact  with  mankind  that  is  greater  even  than  the 
contact  of  a  physician,  a  judge,  or  a  clergyman.  His 
contact  had  not  made  him  form  a  complimentary  opin- 
ion of  mankind.  Nor  had  his  studies  done  so.  Yet 
within  mankind,  he  had  always  conceded,  were  possibili- 
ties. The  possibilities  were  made  probabilities  by  the  new 
creed. 

Because  his  imagination  was  great,  he  understood  what 
a  man  of  lesser  imagination  yet  possibly  greater  men- 
tality could  not  have  understood:  that  happiness  can 
only  come  into  the  world  when  all  mankind  desires  that 


x    O 

"T:  J~i 


0 

U 


U 


THE  DAY  OF  FAITH  33S 

happiness  and  has  a  true  understanding  of  what  that 
happiness  really  means. 

Morton  Anderson  could  maintain  that  nothing  serious 
had  really  happened  to  the  New  Era,  but  Tom  Barnett 
knew  better.  The  crowds  outside  were  proof  enough. 

"  Over?  "  he  said.  "I'm  afraid  that  it  is.  How  did 
it  happen?  " 

She  shrugged.  "  I  don't  know.  The  money  was  gone 
when  I  came  home  last  night " 


«  Not  that,"  he  said.      "  Who " 

"  I  don't  know  who,"  she  said. 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders  impatiently.  "  I  don't  mean 
the  poor  man  who  stole  this  money.  He  doesn't  count." 

"  Doesn't  count  ?  "  demanded  Anderson. 

Barnett  shook  his  head.  "  It  took  a  tremendous  brain 
to  break  down  a  world's  belief.  As  great  a  brain  as  it 
took  to  create  that  belief.  The  sort  of  man  who  commits 
a  petty  theft  is  not  the  sort  of  man  to  overcome  the  will 

of  a  world.  Some  one  else "  He  lapsed  into  moody 

silence. 

For  the  converted  unbeliever  is  the  most  ardent  up- 
holder when  he  finally  comes  to  believe.  Tom  Barnett 
had  been  incredulous  at  first,  then  tepid  in  his  belief,  then 
hot  as  fire  in  his  acceptance  of  the  Great  Plan.  That, 
once  established,  it  could  fail,  had  never  occurred  to  him 
any  more  than  it  had  occurred  to  any  one  else  in  the 
world  save  Michael  Anstell. 

Before  the  Day  of  Faith  had  worked  its  miracle,  sane 
men  would  have  scoffed  at  the  possibility  of  the  world 
accepting  and  practicing  the  Hendricks  creed.  After  it 
had  begun  to  practice,  sane  men  would  have  scoffed  at 
the  idea  that  the  world  could  ever  relinquish  its  triumph 
over  itself. 

But  Tom  Barnett  had  believed  that  not  a  person  in  the 
world  had  failed  to  accept  the  Hendricks  creed.  He 


334  THE  DAY  OF  FAITH 

knew  better  now.  Some  one  had  failed  to  accept  it,  some 
one  of  tremendous  will  power,  superhuman  almost  in  that 
it  had  resisted  the  rest  of  humanity.  Who? 

The  telephone  rang  in  the  hall  outside,  and  Jane  rose 
wearily  to  answer  it.  Barnett  leaped  to  his  feet  and 
with  a  nod  she  accepted  the  courtesy.  He  went  to  the 
ringing  instrument. 

"  Hello,"  he  said. 

"  Hello,  this  is  John  Anstell  speaking." 

"  This  is  Barnett,"  he  replied. 

"Oh,  you,  Barnett.     How's  Miss  Maynard?  " 

"  We-11,"  began  Barnett,  but  Anstell  cut  him  short. 

"  Get  her  out  of  the  city,  at  once,"  ordered  Anstell. 

"  Out  of  the  city?  What  do  you  mean?  "  asked  Bar- 
nett. 

"  I  mean  that  hell's  broken  loose.  The  people  have 
some  crazy  idea  that  Father  has  done  something  or  other 
to  them  —  God  knows  what  they  think.  I  don't.  But 
a  mob  just  formed  before  his  house,  and  we  had  the  police 
drive  them  away.  A  mob  of  maniacs.  One  of  them  ac- 
tually broke  in  and  harangued  Father.  Some  silly  story 
about  a  clerk  who  claims  that  he  overheard  Father  and 
myself  talking  about  something  or  other,  and  he  babbled 
to  his  doctor,  who  told  somebody  else,  and  it's  spread  like 
wildfire.  Father  has  telephoned  the  governor,  and  he's 
going  to  put  the  city  under  martial  law." 

"  Martial  law?  "  gasped  Barnett. 

"  Certainly.  We  can't  let  a  mob  of  vicious  madmen  go 
around  publicly  denouncing  an  idea  that's  been  accepted 
by  the  whole  world.  Why,  the  whole  business  will  be 
ruined.  Is  Miss  Maynard  there?" 

"  I'll  call  her,"  said  Barnett. 

He  left  the  receiver  dangling  from  its  cord  while  he 
walked  into  the  main  hall.  "  Mr.  Anstell  to  speak  with 
you,"  he  said. 


THE  DAY  OF  FAITH  335 

He  sat  down  and  waited  for  Jane's  return.  Neither 
he  nor  Morton  Anderson  exchanged  speech,  nor  could 
they  hear  Jane's  conversation.  But  she  returned  in  a 
moment.  In  her  violet  eyes  was  blazing  a  wrath  that 
neither  Barnett  nor  Anderson  had  ever  seen  there  before. 
It  had  been  there  on  the  night,  so  dim  in  memory  now, 
when  Montreal  Sammy  had  invaded  her  home  and  caused 
her  father's  death.  Although  this  was  a  different  kind 
of  wrath.  Hate  had  been  in  her  eyes  then;  this  was  a 
righteous  wrath,  as  might  be  kindled  in  the  breast,  to 
gleam  from  the  eyes,  of  any  decent  person  who  has  looked 
at  blasphemy. 

"  Did  he  tell  you?  "  she  demanded. 

He  nodded.  She  had  never  been  so  beautiful;  her 
slim  figure  took  on  for  the  moment  an  almost  statuesque 
quality.  Yet  it  was  an  alive  statuesqueness ;  for  from 
the  tips  of  her  fingers  to  the  feet  encased  in  fashionable 
walking  shoes,  she  was  vital. 

"  Martial  law,"  she  cried.  "  Oh,  God,  what  a  travesty ! 
Police,  soldiers,  to  persuade  men  that  they  love  each 
other.  The  cannon's  mouth  to  speak  a  message  of  love !  " 

She  fell  into  a  chair,  and  sobs  came  from  the  lovely 
lips.  "  Alread}* ,"  she  cried.  "  In  twenty  days  men  per- 
secute for  the  sake  of  the  faith  that's  in  them.  The 
courts,  the  judges,  the  law,  the  soldiery  —  all  to  uphold 
an  ideal.  Kill  for  the  ideal!  Slay  each  and  every  one 
who  does  not  agree  —  oh,  God !  " 

"  I'll  stop  it,"  cried  Bamett. 

"  How?  "  she  asked.  "  I  commanded  him,  and  he  told 
me  that  I  did  not  understand.  He  said  that  the  demor- 
alized police  force  was  ill-equipped  to  meet  a  situation 
of  anarchy.  He  said  that  all  the  processes  of  civil  law 
had  broken  down  in  the  past  three  weeks,  that  only  the 
military,  which  had  not  had  time  for  complete  disband- 
ing, could  cope  with  the  situation.  He  refused  me." 


THE  DAY  OF  FAITH 

"But  doesn't  he  know  what  it  means?"  asked  Bar- 
nett. 

"  Know?  He  told  me  how  it  had  started,  and  —  that 
clerk  told  the  truth.  No  lie  concerning  the  Anstells  could 
have  overcome  the  faith  of  the  world.  No  pitiful  clerk 
could  have  pitted  his  mentality  against  the  will  of  all 
the  world.  No  one  but  Michael  Anstell  could  have  done 
that.  It  was  he!  He  who  duped  the  world,  led  it  to 
the  heights  and  pushed  it  over  to  gratify  his  own  greed." 

"  I'll  'phone  him ;  I'll  get  him  to  come  down  here " 

But  she  interrupted  Barnett  with  a  shake  of  her  head. 
"  He  wouldn't  come ;  I  asked  him.  He  said  that  bad  as 
~the  situation  was  in  New  York,  it  was  worse  in  other 
places.  The  mob  has  taken  possession  of  Harlesstown. 
The  factories,  the  mills  —  they  are  going  to  destroy  them 
all,  wipe  out  the  town " 

"  But  why?  '*  gasped  Morton  Anderson. 

"  Why  Harlesstown?  The  factory  town,  where  all  the 
agitation  has  occurred  in  the  past  few  years.  Where 
labor  has  always  been  fighting  capital,  the  agitator's  para- 
dise," exclaimed  Jane  bitterly.  "  Michael  Anstell  owns 
that  town.  If  the  mob  destroys  it,  he's  destroyed.  I 
suppose  he  thinks  so,  anyway.  And  only  last  week,  only 
yesterday,  the  papers  told  of  the  happiness,  the  pros- 
perity, unequaled  in  its  history,  that  had  come  to  Har- 
lesstown. Now "  Her  gesture  was  the  acme  of 

despair. 

"  Is  he  going  there?  "  asked  her  uncle. 

"  To  protect  his  father's  interests,"  said  Jane.  Her 
voice  was  sardonic,  almost  sneering.  "  He  places  those 
interests  above  the  interests  of  the  world.  Rather  than 
have  a  factory  burn  down,  he  will  let  a  world  destroy  it- 
self. And  I  thought,"  she  laughed  bitterly,  "  that  greed 
Jiad  been  abolished.  And  it  was!  Except  in  the  evil 
heart  of  Michael  Anstell." 


THE  DAY  OF  FAITH  337 

"  '  My  neighbor  is  perfect,'  "  quoted  Morton  Anderson 
gravely. 

She  stared  at  him.  On  his  face  was  no  trace  of  a 
smile.  He,  the  man  of  the  law  who  had  told  her  that  he 
should  have  been  a  pirate,  who  had  backed  her  plan  with 
money  because  he  thought  she  should  have  a  sporting 
chance,  awakened  her  to  the  meaning  of  what  she  was 
saying. 

Slowly  the  angry  fires  left  her  eyes;  the  red  blood  re- 
ceded from  her  cheeks ;  the  palpitant  bosom  calmed. 

"  My  neighbor  is  perfect,'*  she  echoed.  "  He  is !  He 
is !  Even  —  even " 

"  Michael  Anstell,"  said  Barnett. 

"  Even  Michael  Anstell,"  said  Jane.  She  rose  from 
her  chair.  "  It  can't  be  too  late.  The  world  won't  sur- 
render —  She  ran  to  the  telephone  and  asked  for 
Michael  Anstell's  office.  He  was  not  there,  the  fright- 
ened voice  of  a  clerk  informed  her.  She  rang  his  home, 
and  from  another  frightened  voice  learned  that  he,  with 
his  son,  had  just  left  for  the  railroad  station.  Their 
destination  was  Harlesstown. 

She  went  back  into  the  main  hall  of  the  Foundation. 
"  They've  left  —  both  of  them  —  for  Harlesstown,"  she 
said.  "  I?m  going " 

"  So  am  I,"  cried  Barnett. 

She  swept  him  a  glance  that  was  an  accolade.  "  Of 
course  you  are,"  she  told  him.  He  thrilled  to  glance 
and  words.  She  counted  on  him ;  she  relied  on  him  when 
the  man  whom  she  was  to  marry  had  failed  her.  The 
man  whom  she  was  to  marry!  He  knew,  at  once,  that 
she  would  never  marry  John  Anstell.  Hope,  that  he  had 
never  permitted  to  enshrine  itself  within  his  heart,  sud- 
denly bourgeoned  there.  Forgotten  for  the  moment  was 
the  present  tragedy,  the  tremendous  fall  of  all  human- 
ity. He  remembered  only  himself,  —  and  her. 


338  THE  DAY  OF  FAITH 

But  the  tragedy  became  dominant  in  his  mind  when 
they  reached  the  streets.  Jane  had  talked  to  the  mob 
earlier  this  morning,  had  pleaded  with  it  to  hold  the  faith 
that  had  been  in  it.  And  because  they  loved  her,  be- 
cause they  did  not  yet  realize  what  had  happened,  could 
not  possibly  understand  how  doubt  and  distrust  had 
crept  back  from  banishment,  they  had  been  pacified. 

They  still  loved  her.  But  they  no  longer  loved  their 
neighbors.  How  could  they?  All  over  New  York  men 
and  women  gathered.  The  details  of  the  great  treason, 
garbled  and  misstated,  yet  true  in  essence,  had  spread 
like  wildfire.  Michael  Anstell  had  not  been  sincere.  He 
had  backed  the  Great  Plan  for  selfish  reasons.  So  men 
were  told,  and  so  men  believed. 

Colossal  had  been  his  opportunity  for  satisfying  his 
greed.  All  the  world  knew  of  the  Universal  trust.  Men 
guessed  what  as  yet  they  could  not  prove  —  that  he 
owned  most  of  that  trust.  His  purpose  was  too  obvi- 
ous. Men  knew  of  the  laws  that  had  been  passed ;  street 
orators  explained  how  they  would  work  to  the  benefit  of 
Anstell  and  against  the  interests  of  the  world.  Inflamed, 
men  had  marched  to  his  house,  but  he  had  escaped.  And 
his  servants,  who  would  tell  Jane  his  mission,  would  not 
inform  the  mob.  Michael  Anstell  had  managed  to  buy 
loyalty,  at  least,  with  his  money.  The  same  voices  that 
three  weeks  ago  had  given  Michael  Anstell  such  applause 
as  no  man  in  history  had  ever  received,  now  cursed  him. 

And  against  them  were  pitted  the  hastily  summoned 
soldiery.  They  paraded  the  streets  of  New  York;  they 
surrounded  the  house  of  Michael  Anstell ;  their  glistening 
bayonets  formed  a  barricade  around  his  office.  Indeed, 
no  financial  house  downtown  but  had  its  armed  guard. 

The  Great  Debacle  had  not  merely  commenced;  it  was 
in  full  sway ;  it  ruled  the  world.  For  not  merely  in  New 
York  had  the  people  cast  off  the  new  ideal.  All  over  the 


THE  DAY  OF  FAITH  339 

world,  revitalized  by  its  brief  slumber,  hate  awoke  and 
stepped  forth  to  its  old  dominion  over  the  hearts  and 
minds  of  men. 

And  those  men  —  and  there  were  hundreds  of  millions 
of  them  —  who  held  to  the  Great  Plan,  could  offer  no 
battle  against  the  onslaught  of  hate.  They  loved  their 
neighbors,  they  believed  them  perfect.  But  that  belief, 
which  had  conquered  all  enemies  yesterday,  was  impotent 
to-day.  The  thief,  the  murderer,  —  these  were  not  held 
back  by  the  Hendricks  creed.  And  so  men  who  would 
have  believed  cast  off  the  faith,  yielding  to  the  necessi- 
ties of  the  moment. 

Should  a  man  die  for  his  faith,  a  faith  which  every 
sense,  save  that  inner  one  which  had  bloomed  so  briefly, 
told  him  was  false?  How  could  he  believe  that  his  neigh- 
bor was  perfect  when  his  neighbor,  in  all  the  viciousness 
of  which  mankind  is  capable,  rushed  at  him?  So  had 
those  who  tried  to  reconcile  belief  and  practice  through 
nineteen  hundred  years  argued  in  the  past.  So  their 
descendants  argued  to-day.  And  so  the  world  locked  in 
mad  battle;  for  the  courts  had  broken  down,  were  non- 
existent, and  the  soldiery's  very  presence,  speaking  as 
it  did  of  another  hope  buried,  aroused  the  passions  of 
the  masses.  Heaven  had  descended  upon  the  world  and 
stayed  there  nineteen  days ;  Hell  now  took  its  place,  — 
to  remain.  Only  Jane  Anstell  and  Tom  Barnett  were  ar- 
ticulate in  saying  that  hell  would  not  remain. 

Speeding  toward  Harlesstown,  on  a  train  only  an  hour 
or  so  later  than  the  special  which  carried  the  Anstells, 
Jane  and  Barnett  fought  for  the  mastery  of  the  world. 
They  fought  with  no  physical  weapons;  they  used  no 
speech;  together  they  held,  in  silence,  a  belief  which  had 
been  powerful  enough,  only  yesterday,  to  conquer  the 
world.  Could  all  its  potency  have  left  it?  Was  the 


340  THE  DAY  OF  FAITH 

truth  less  the  truth  to-day  than  it  was  yesterday?  They 
would  not  grant  the  Satanic  argument. 

And  slowly  hope  revived  in  the  heart  of  Jane  Maynard. 
She  might  lose  the  battle  which  she  was  speeding  to  wage. 
She  might  not  win  Michael  Anstell  to  the  way  of  decency ; 
she  might  not  win  any  one  in  the  world  save  Tom  Barnett. 
And  yet  —  it  was  the  truth  nevertheless.  Her  neighbor 
was  perfect.  Even  though  she  and  Tom  Barnett  could 
not  accept  that  truth  in  such  a  fashion  that  they  could 
live  according  to  its  dictates,  nevertheless,  it  was  none 
the  less  the  truth. 

Did  man  make  the  truth?  Or  did  the  truth  make  it- 
self? What  mattered  it  if  a  whole  world  denied  it  then? 
The  truth  still  went  triumphantly  on  its  way,  careless  of 
man's  puny  acceptance.  For  the  truth  was  greater  than 
all  mankind.  Wherefore,  it  must  prevail.  And  if  it  did 
not  prevail  to-day,  there  was  yet  to-morrow. 

But  for  the  sake  of  a  torn  world,  hurled  again  into 
chaos,  she  prayed,  she  hoped  that  truth  could  prevail 
again  to-day.  So,  sinking  back  into  her  chair,  her  lips 
moved  in  prayer. 

While,  fifty  miles  ahead  of  her,  Michael  Anstell  and 
John,  angry  that  their  scheme  had  been  exposed,  not  un- 
derstanding that  such  a  lie  as  theirs  could  not  endure 
unsuspected,  that  in  the  very  nature  of  things  it  had  to  be 
exposed,  nevertheless  were  not  downcast.  Michael  An- 
stell had  talked  with  a  score  of  his  lieutenants  before 
leaving  the  city.  They  had  been  shocked,  dazed,  at  the 
collapse  of  the  New  Era.  But  now  that  it  had  col- 
lapsed, they  looked  upon  its  passing  as  inevitable.  It 
had  been-  an  Utopian  dream.  They  did  not  condemn 
Michael  Anstell.  For  greed  was  in  the  hearts  of  men 
again,  and  Michael  Anstell  was  the  one  man  in  the  world 
who  could  satisfy  greed.  He  owned  the  world.  And  so 
governors  and  legislators  and  judges  were  called  into 


THE  DAY  OF  FAITH  341 

action  to  prevent  the  world  from  going  mad.  For  the 
world  deemed,  again,  that  only  by  violence  could  violence 
be  checked.  Of  course,  it  was  too  bad  that  the  Millennium 
had  gone,  but  this  was  a  practical  world.  Practical  mat- 
ters must  be  met  in  a  practical  way.  And,  after  all, 
Michael  Anstell  had  not  done  anything  really  wrong.  He 
had  wished  to  better  the  world.  So  his  sycophants  argued. 
But  the  commonalty  of  the  world,  in  whose  hearts  lay  the 
ashes  of  hope,  knew  that  he  had  committed  the  most 
grievous  wrong  in  all  history.  For  the  world  now  knew 
that  until  every  last  soul  was  ready  for  the  Millennium,  the 
Millennium  must  be  deferred.  For  Christ  can  reign  only 
over  willing  subjects.  Michael  Anstell  had  been  unwilling. 
So  he  was  hated.  And  he  sneered  as  he  talked  to  his  son. 
How  could  he  know  that  before  this  day  was  ended  he, 
too,  would  have  accepted  the  Great  Plan,  and  find  too  late 
that  in  gaining  a  world  he  had  succeeded  only  in  damning 
himself  ? 

For  what  doth  it  profit  a  man  if  he  gain  the  whole  world 
and  lose  his  own  soul? 


CHAPTER  XXXIV 

THERE  was  no  heralding  of  the  coming  of  Michael  An- 
stell's  special  train  to  Harlesstown.  He,  who  during  the 
last  nineteen  days  had  been  hailed  wherever  he  went  as 
one  of  the  great  deliverers  of  mankind,  who  had  been 
accorded  a  trust  and  a  power  greater  than  any  modern 
potentate  had  attained,  and  who  had  been  granted  an 
affection  that  surpassed  belief,  slipped  into  the  factory 
town  like  a  fugitive  criminal. 

It  was  through  no  impulse  that  he  came  here.  Harless- 
town was  the  most  perfectly  organized  community,  in- 
dustrially speaking,  in  the  country.  Labor  stood  firmly 
and  proudly  for  its  rights  here.  Capital  stood  firmly — 
and  with  equal  pride — for  its  rights.  Before  the  New 
Era  had  come,  Harlesstown  had  agreed  upon  a  working 
compromise,  a  truce  acceptable  to  both  sides  in  the  age- 
old  dispute.  And  that  Harlesstown  should  be  the  most 
violent  of  all  American  communities  in  its  denunciation  of 
Michael  Anstell  meant  much. 

Labor,  of  late  years,  had  been  taking  its  cue  from 
Harlesstown.  So  had  capital.  Here  had  been  inaug- 
urated reforms,  new  methods  of  production,  new  measures 
whereby  understanding  between  the  two  great  forces  that 
comprehended  modern  society  might  be  effected. 

Harlesstown  had  accepted  the  Day  of  Faith  more  joy- 
ously, perhaps,  than  any  other  town  in  the  world.  To 
Harlesstown  it  meant  the  end  of  struggle,  that  desperate 
struggle  for  bread  which  has  racked  the  world  since  its 
inception. 

So  Harlesstown,  corrupted  by  that  subtle  doubt  which 


THE  DAY  OF  FAITH  343 

in  an  hour  had  lost  its  subtlety  and  become  definite,  crude, 
brutal,  seemed  to  Michael  Anstell  the  one  battle  ground 
of  importance.  The  police,  hastily  reorganized,  the  sol- 
diery, summoned  into  action,  could  control  the  great 
cities,  the  ordinary  towns.  But  Harlesstown  was  a  place 
where  laborers  had  starved  rather  than  accept  what  they 
felt  to  be  injustice.  Harlesstown  was  a  place  where  all 
the  forces  of  the  law,  civil  and  military,  had  failed  to 
quell  the  agitator's  voice,  the  sullen  cry  o*f  labor.  If 
that  had  happened  in  the  past,  what  would  happen  to-day? 

For  he  could  not  believe  that  the  world  had  pitched 
down  into  the  tossing  debacle.  His  destiny  was  too  mani- 
fest a  thing  for  him  to  permit  a  doubt  as  to  its  fulfilment 
on  the  lines  on  which  he  had  conceived  it. 

When  he  had  proposed  and  planned  the  Day  of  Faith, 
he  had  had  no  idea  that  its  effect  would  be  so  tremendous, 
so  colossal,  as  had  happened.  He  had  believed  that  the 
world,  athirst  for  hope,  was  in  a  mood  of  spiritual  de- 
spondency from  which  it  would  arouse  itself  if  properly 
urged.  He  had  believed  that  it  would  accept  the  new 
faith  as  it  had  accepted  other  faiths,  would  be  lulled  into 
a  certain  complacency  which  would  render  it  his  easy 
victim. 

That  it  would  surrender,  body,  mind  and  soul,  to  the 
New  Era  had  not  been  guessed  by  him.  But  when  he 
had  seen  its  tremendous  surrender,  his  purpose  had  not 
failed.  The  great  yielding  but  made  his  conquest  easier. 
And  now  that  the  world  had  begun  to  toss  overboard  the 
thing  that  had  saved  it  from  storm,  Michael  Anstell  could 
not  believe  the  evidence  of  his  eyes  and  ears. 

Yet,  even  if  a  meek  surrender  to  his  will  was  lost  to 
him,  he  had  so  cunningly  enchained  the  world  that  he 
could  hold  what  he  had  seized.  Unless,  of  course,  some 
sort  of  revolution  were  instituted.  He  did  not  believe 
such  a  thing  possible.  He  had  told  his  son  of  its  im- 


THE  DAY  OF  FAITH 

possibility.  Nevertheless,  a  wise  man  considers  every- 
thing, and  Michael  Anstell  considered  himself  wise.  He 
did  not  know  that  he  was  that  fool  who  had  said  in  his 
heart  there  was  no  God. 

By  coming  to  Harlesstown  and  meeting  the  labor  lead- 
ers, by  addressing  the  roused  citizenry,  he  could  achieve 
an  understanding  and  save  what  he  had  gained. 

This  had  been  his  idea.  An  hysterical  New  York  mob 
meant  little  to  him.  New  York  was  the  most  emotional 
city  in  the  world  and  swayed  from  height  to  depth  as  any 
chance  thought  impelled  it.  New  York  and  the  great 
capitals  could  be  won  back.  Harlesstown  was  important 
now. 

He  had  wired  his  representatives  of  his  coming  and 
had  expected  them  to  arrange  such  a  reception  as  would 
overawe  the  community.  So  he  was  surprised  when  his 
special  train  was  stopped  a  few  miles  outside  the  town 
and  the  presidents  of  five  of  the  biggest  factories  in 
the  town  boarded  his  car. 

They  were  men  to  whom  business  had  been  as  a  deity. 
Until  the  coming  of  the  Day  of  Faith.  Then  they  had 
accepted,  had  been  made  anew,  like  the  rest  of  the  world. 
The  debacle  had  come ;  they  had  reverted  to  type,  as  all 
the  world  must  do.  They  were  business  men  again,  sub- 
servient to  Michael  Anstell.  They  greeted  him  deprecat- 
ingly.  One  of  them  voiced  the  sentiments  of  all  when  he 
said,  in  response  to  a  question  of  Michael  Anstell: 

"  Condemn  you?  Certainly  not,  Mr.  Anstell.  You  had 
a  great  idea,  and  the  world  is  better  for  it.  Of  course,  it 
would  have  been  wonderful  if  it  had  continued,  but  —  after 
all,  we're  all  human  beings.  If  a  lot  of  agitators  hadn't 
expected  the  impossible,  then  demanded  it  —  but  it's  too 
late  now,  Mr.  Anstell.  We  stopped  your  train  because  it 
would  be  unsafe  for  you  to  enter  Harlesstown  until  the 
way  has  been  prepared." 


THE  DAY  OF  FAITH  345 

"  Unsafe  ?  "  demanded  Anstell  incredulously.  "  Aren't 
there  police  in  Harlesstown?  " 

The  spokesman  nodded.  "  But  only  a  few,  and  —  ta 
tell  you  the  truth,  Mr.  Anstell,  Harlesstown  took  the 
Day  of  Faith  more  seriously,  perhaps,  than  any  other 
place.  When  it  was  first  proposed,  Harlesstown  leaped 
at  the  idea.  Men  had  so  long  preached  justice  here  that 
men  believed  justice  and  kindliness  were  possible.  Now 
that  Harlesstown  has  learned  that,  well,"  he  coughed  in 
embarrassment,  "  that  you  were  animated  by  the  desire 
to  — er " 

"  To  reorganize  the  world  on  a  business  basis,  to  assure 
to  the  strong  the  fruits  of  their  strength,  to  make  labor 
safe  by  rendering  capital  impervious  to  any  assault.  I. 
suppose  that's  wrong,  eh?  "  snapped  Anstell. 

"  Not  at  all,"  said  the  spokesman.  "  Only  —  Harless- 
town didn't  know  that  was  the  idea  and  —  like  the  rest 
of  the  world  —  is  upset.  It  would  not  be  safe  for  you  to» 
make  a  public  entry  into  the  town,  Mr.  Anstell.  But 
we  are  working  on  the  men.  By  night,  perhaps,  they  will 
be  in  a  mood  to  listen " 

So  the  Anstells  left  the  train  and  entered  closed  motor- 
cars, which  took  them  to  a  hotel  in  the  town,  where,  lest 
the  presence  of  many  factory  officials  arouse  suspicion,, 
they  were  left  alone.  Outside  they  could  see,  through  the 
none-too-clean  windows  of  their  room,  the  milling  crowds, 
could  hear  hoarse  roars  of  rage,  could  see  the  soap-box 
orator  lift  his  head  above  the  throng  and  for  a  moment 
hold  its  wandering  attention. 

An  hour  after  their  arrival  they  heard  the  name  of 
Jane  Maynard  cried  aloud.  A  bellboy,  somewhat  con- 
temptuous of  these  two  men  who  feared  the  crowd,  yet 
bribed  to  secrecy,  went  outside  and  made  inquiry  for  them. 
The  crowd  was  already  leaving  the  square  before  the  hotel, 
running  in  the  direction  of  the  railroad  station.  The 


346 

boy,  returning,  told  them  that  Jane  Maynard  had  arrived 
in  Harlesstown,  that  she  would  make  a  speech  in  the 
square,  that  her  reception  had  been  both  warm  and  cold. 
Part  of  the  crowd  cheered  her,  and  the  rest  had  been 
stonily  silent. 

From  their  hiding  place  behind  the  curtains  of  the 
window,  the  Anstells  watched  the  throngs  surge  again 
into  the  square,  saw  finally  Jane  Maynard,  accompanied 
by  Tom  Barnett,  ride  in  a  slowly  moving  motor-car  to  the 
square's  center.  There  the  machine  halted,  and  silence 
descended  upon  the  multitude. 

The  girl  rose  in  the  tonneau  of  the  machine.  To  John 
Anstell,  staring  hungrily  at  her,  she  had  never  been  so 
beautiful,  so  lovely,  so  altogether  desirable  as  in  this  mo- 
ment when  she  fought  for  the  faith  that  was  in  her,  for  the 
safety,  for  the  spirit  of  mankind. 

Save  for  those  impromptu  addresses  which  had  been 
forced  upon  her  since  the  establishment  of  the  Founda- 
tion, Jane  had  never  made  a  speech  in  public ;  she  had  no 
training  for  it.  Yet  there  was  no  trace  of  nervousness 
in  her  manner  as  now  she  made  the  supreme  effort  of  her 
life.  Calm,  almost  assured,  her  great  dignity  stilled  the 
crowd.  Her  lips  opened,  and  in  the  farthest  corner  of 
the  crowded  square,  in  the  hotel  room  where  Michael 
Anstell  and  his  son  crouched,  her  words  were  audible. 

"  My  neighbor  is  perfect." 

Into  the  faces  of  the  inflamed,  maddened  mob  she 
hurled  the  challenge.  And  from  those  twisted  lips  came 
a  response.  But  it  was  not  the  response  of  twenty  days 
ago.  Instead,  a  sullen  roar  came  from  the  crowd,  sneer- 
ing, menacing,  hate-filled.  A  man^  climbed  upon  a  fire 
hydrant,  supporting  himself  by  gripping  the  shoulders 
of  those  about  him.  A  roar  of  greeting  came  from  the 
crowd ;  it  died  away  as  he  lifted  his  hand. 

"  Miss  Maynard,"  he  cried. 


THE  DAY  OF  FAITH  347 

The  girl  turned  toward  him. 

"  I  suppose,"  he  cried,  "  that  goes  for  Michael  An- 
stell!" 

"Why  not?"  Crisp,  cool  and  challenging  her  answer 
came. 

"  Why  not?  "  he  echoed.  "  Do  you  mean  to  tell  us 
that  you  believe  in  him,  the  man  who  financed  you  to  seize 
the  world,  to  grind  the  toiler  down  as  he  never  was  ground 
down  before?  Do  you  believe  in  him?  " 

"And  if  I  do?  "she  asked. 

"  If  you  do,"  and  his  voice  broke  in  his  wrath,  "  then 
you  never  ought  to  have  left  that  insane  asylum  that  you 
came  from ! " 

That  was  all.  From  the  mob  arose  a  mighty  roar 
of  approbation.  She  had  hurled  her  challenge,  and  it 
had  been  picked  up  and  hurled  back.  She  had  fought 
for  the  mastery  of  the  world,  fought  on  the  side  of  decency 
and  goodness,  and  evil  was  again  triumphant. 

That  roar  of  approbation  smashed  against  the  ears  of 
John  Anstell.  Torn  by  emotions  which  he  could  not  quite 
comprehend,  he  had  watched  Jane,  had  listened  to  her 
affirmation.  Suddenly  he  knew.  He  should  have  been  by 
her  side,  not  Tom  Barnett.  He  should  have  been  voicing 
the  faith  which  he  had  deserted,  which  he  had  used  as  a 
means  of  satisfying  his  own  greed.  For  she  was  lovely ; 
ah,  lovelier  now  in  the  moment  when  he  knew  that  she  was 
lost  to  him  than  ever  she  could  have  been  had  he  won  her. 
Lost  to  him!  He  knew  it,  knew  it  as  definitely  as  he 
knew  that  he  and  his  father  had  betrayed  the  world. 

Oh,  if  when  his  first  doubt  had  arisen,  he  had  conquered 
it,  had  stood,  not  by  his  father  in  the  Great  Betrayal, 
but  by  mankind,  by  Jane,  in  the  Great  Victory !  He  had 
not;  she  had  been  lost  to  him  then,  though  neither  she 
nor  he  had  known  it ! 

Lost  to  him!     That  lovely  body,  that  incomparable 


348  THE  DAY  OF  FAITH 

face,  that  matchless  spirit  to  belong  to  another!  He  felt 
withered,  shrunken,  crushed  in  the  sudden  certainty. 
What  were  millions,  billions,  power?  What  was  anything 
in  the  world  as  compared  with  Jane  Maynard? 

And  they  were  crying  out  their  approbation  of  the  man 
who  hurled  defiance  at  her.  His  brain  seemed  on  fire;  he 
did  not  read  the  good  humor  in  the  mob's  tones.  He  did 
not  know  that  always,  forever  in  the  hearts  of  men,  Jane 
Maynard  would  be  marked  for  esteem  and  love.  They 
might,  in  this  moment,  heartlessly  cheer  the  man  who  in- 
sulted her.  But  even  now  they  would  have  slain  the  man 
who  tried  to  harm  her.  The  orator  on  the  hydrant  had 
been  crudely,  vulgarly  witty,  and  his  wit  brought  ap- 
proval, mirth.  For  it  was  mirth,  not  menace,  in  the  mob's 
voice. 

But  maddened  by  his  own  self-contempt,  by  the  further 
sense  of  his  irreparable  loss,  John  Anstell  misread  the 
mob.  He  thought  that  the  sudden  surge  of  thousands  of 
bodies  portended  violence  to  her.  And  so,  because  there 
was  no  cowardice  in  his  soul,  he  ran  to  aid  her.  Before 
his  father  could  raise  his  warning  voice,  John  Anstell  was 
out  of  the  room.  A  moment  later  Michael  Anstell  saw 
him  on  the  sidewalk,  saw  him  pushing  his  way  toward  the 
middle  of  the  square. 

Then  —  recognition !  And  from  the  mob's  many- 
tongued  throat  came  a  roar  of  hate.  Hate  for  the  son 
of  the  man  who  had  robbed  them  of  the  thing  for  which 
the  world  had  vainly  striven  since  its  creation;  hate  for 
the  man  who  had  balked  them  of  their  great  desire,  the 
desire  which  they  could  not  again  achieve,  which  they  had 
barely  comprehended  in  the  moment  of  achievement,  but 
which,  like  the  dimmed  joys  of  infancy,  would  loom 
larger,  seem  sweeter,  because  of  memory's  mortality. 

From  the  motor-car  where  she  stood,  tears  in  her  eyes, 
unuttered  sobs  swelling  her  throat,  Jane  saw  him.  She 


THE  DAY  OF  FAITH  349 

saw  the  mob  seize  him,  lift  him  on  high,  about  to  rend 
him. 

Her  voice  rose  in  a  shriek  of  agony.  The  hands  that 
tore  at  John  Anstell's  clothing  fell  away  from  him.  But 
it  was  too  late.  The  body  that  they  dropped  upon  the 
pavement  no  longer  stirred  with  life.  That  one  rush  of 
the  mob  had  crushed  the  spirit  from  the  body.  Jane 
saw  and  understood.  She  had  not  been  for  John  Anstell : 
that  she  had  known  since  last  night.  Yet  she  had  given 
her  lips  to  him,  had  thought,  in  that  great  loneliness  which 
had  possessed  her  when  first  she  started  the  Foundation, 
that  she  had  loved  him.  She  knew  better  now ;  but  he  had, 
in  his  way,  loved  her,  and  she  had  thought  that  she  loved 
him.  And  so,  her  heart  breaking,  she  swayed,  blinded, 
horror-stricken.  Tom  Barnett,  a  giant  despite  his  crip- 
pled knee,  took  her  in  his  arms.  Insane  with  fear  for  her, 
he  fought  his  way  through  the  crowd,  maddened  with 
horror  for  the  thing  that  it  had  done,  bore  her  into  the 
hotel. 

Into  the  hotel  where  Michael  Anstell  crouched  behind 
the  curtain,  a  witness  of  the  tragedy  that  not  all  his 
money,  not  all  his  greed,  not  all  his  power  could  prevent. 
His  son!  The  son  for  whom  he  had  planned  so  greatly 
and  so  evilly !  His  son,  whom  he  had  debauched,  made 
partner  in  the  dreadful  onslaught  against  the  faith  of 
the  world!  His  son! 

He  saw  hands  that  were  suddenly  gentle  lift  the  bruised 
body,  bear  it,  after  Jane  Maynard,  toward  that  room 
wherein  he  crouched,  a  victim  to  the  most  dreadful  remorse 
that  man  has  known  since  Judas  fled  the  companionship 
of  his  own  soul. 

Then,  suddenly,  Michael  Anstell  understood.  His  son 
had  gone  to  save  Jane  Maynard,  had  in  the  last  moment 
of  life  expiated,  so  far  as  might  be,  the  sin  that  was  his. 
He  had  died  for  Jane  Maynard.  Through  his  mind  ran 


350  THE  DAY  OF  FAITH 

the  great  truth:  "  Greater  love  hath  no  man  than  this, 
that  a  man  lay  down  his  life  for  his  friends." 

Greater  love.  Love!  What  was  this  thing  called  love? 
What  was  it?  What  had  he  done  to  it?  He  turned  from 
the  window  and  started  for  the  door,  to  run  out  and 
claim  the  body  of  his  son,  careless  that  the  same  fate 
might  await  him.  He  took  one  stride  forward,  then 
stopped.  His  eyes,  fastened  upon  a  picture  on  the  wall, 
widened,  were  suddenly  pitiful. 

For  there  upon  the  wall,  in  a  dingy  frame,  poorly  exe- 
cuted, the  cheap  glass  that  covered  it  none  too  clean,  was 
a  reproduction  of  a  famous  painting.  A  painting  of  the 
Christ ! 

Love !  He  knew  at  last  what  it  was.  This  picture  on 
the  wall  of  the  dingy  hotel  room,  hung  there  by  some 
loving  hand  that  humbly  tried  to  do  good,  this  picture 
told  him.  For  the  cheap  glass  and  the  poor  reproduction 
could  not  dim  the  glory  of  the  painted  eyes.  Painted,  but 
real,  as  truth  must  ever  be. 

Love !  This  was  what  love  was ;  it  was  Christ  himself . 
And  He  had  died  to  prove  its  virtue,  to  prove  its  in- 
fallibility, to  prove  its  rigid  iron  law,  the  law  that  said 
that  by  no  other  means  might  man  be  saved. 

Then  if  this  was  Christ,  here  in  the  room,  what  was 
he,  Michael  Anstell?  Michael  Anstell,  who  had  sneered 
at  the  gospel  of  love  and  practiced  a  gospel  of  hate! 
Michael  Anstell,  who  had  brought  a  mock  millennium  into 
the  world,  in  order  that  he  might  profit  thereby !  Michael 
Anstell,  who  by  desiring  his  neighbor's  goods  had  proved 
that  he  hated  his  neighbor,  who  therefore  stood  for  hate. 

Anti-Christ!  Christ  had  been  in  this  room,  had  been 
in  every  room  in  the  world,  and  in  the  streets,  the  fields, 
the  hills  and  lakes  and  valleys.  But  Anti-Christ,  His  great 
enemy,  had  also  been  there,  and  he,  Michael  Anstell,  had 
been  Anti-Christ. 


THE  DAY  OF  FAITH  351 

Anti-Christ  had  won.  He  knew  that.  He  knew  that 
the  Hendricks  creed  had  failed  to  rule  the  world;  at 
this  very  moment  the  world  had  rejected  the  Great  Affir- 
mation, had  sunk  back  into  the  cauldron  of  hate  and 
despair  in  which  the  Bloody  Years  had  left  it. 

Anti-Christ  had  won.  He  had  hurled  love  from  its 
enthroned  pedestal  and  substituted  therefor  the  ugly  false 
idol  of  hate. 

Anti-Christ  had  won!  His  brain  staggered  at  the 
thought.  No,  it  had  not  won ;  it  could  not  win.  Because 
he,  Michael  Anstell,  who  had  been  Anti-Christ,  was  no 
longer  that  dreadful  thing.  Why,  he  had  been  blind,  mad, 
insane !  Incredibly  wicked,  vile  beyond  imagination !  His 
great  dream,  to  conquer  the  world  on  a  greater  scale  than 
Mahomet  had  done,  had  failed.  But  Mahomet  had  been  a 
sincere  man.  He  had  thought  himself  a  prophet,  and  mil- 
lions believed  that  he  was.  He  had  conquered  the  world 
for  goodness,  he  believed.  Michael  Anstell  had  attempted 
its  conquest  for  evil  —  and  had  failed. 

Failed?  Of  course  he  had  failed.  Even  had  the  world 
continued  to  be  his  dupe,  he  would  have  failed.  For  the 
truth  must  conquer  every  one,  sooner  or  later.  Michael 
Anstell's  submission  to  the  truth  had  been  deferred  until 
the  rest  of  the  world  had  submitted  and  denied  submission. 
But  defeat  must  inevitably  come  to  all  who  encounter  the 
truth.  It  came  to  Michael  Anstell  now.  When  a  broken 
world  staggered  back  to  its  torture,  Michael  Anstell  knew 
the  truth. 

Before  its  mighty  recognition  he  staggered,  fell,  his 
hands  reaching  out  to  the  portrait  on  the  wall.  His 
neighbor  was  perfect.  Of  course  he  was !  Oh,  God,  why 
had  he  denied  it?  The  concentrated  will  of  a  billion 
people  had  overshot  Michael  Anstell  twenty  days  ago; 
but  its  force  could  never  die,  though  men  might  forget. 


352  THE  DAY  OF  FAITH 

It   would   live  —  eternally.      It   struck   Michael   Anstell 
now.    He  knew !    Too  late ! 

Great  was  the  tragedy  upon  the  Cross ;  so  great  that  it 
overshadows  all  others.  And  yet  there  must  have  been 
another  tragedy.  The  remorse  of  Judas  must  also  have 
shaken  the  world. 


CHAPTER  XXXV 

INTO  the  room  where  Michael  Anstell  stared  at  the 
poorly  painted  portrait  of  the  Christ,  rendering  at  last 
that  obeisance  to  truth  which  all  mankind  must  sooner  or 
later  render,  they  bore  the  body  of  his  son.  They  laid 
it  down  upon  the  bed  and  softly  they  withdrew,  leaving  the 
broken  old  man  alone  with  his  dead. 

And  what  was  ambition  in  the  presence  of  death?  The 
paths  of  glory.  —  He,  Michael  Anstell,  must  live  and 
know  what  he  had  done.  His  son  had  redeemed  himself 
in  that  final  gallant  moment.  For  him  that  peace  that 
passeth  understanding;  but  for  Michael  Anstell  the  com- 
panionship of  his  own  soul,  the  hatred  of  mankind. 

Into  the  room,  later,  came  Jane.  From  the  bedside  of 
his  son  she  led  the  old  man.  In  her  eyes  was  infinite  pity, 
and  in  her  touch  only  gentleness,  and  before  that  spirit 
of  hers  Michael  Anstell  made  his  final  surrender. 

The  tears  had  gone  from  his  eyes,  and  the  trembling 
departed  from  his  limbs.  He  was,  to  outward  appear- 
ance, that  same  Michael  Anstell  who  had  duped  the  world, 
made  it  for  twenty  days  his  slave.  For  Michael  Anstell 
was  strong.  None  but  the  strongest  could  have  planned 
and  executed  the  thing  which  he  had  done. 

"  Miss  Maynard,"  he  said,  "  you  know  what  I've  done." 

She  nodded  an  assent.  Behind  her,  staring  at  the  two, 
Tom  Barnett's  body  stiffened.  Michael  Anstell  had  duped 
her  once.  Could  he,  playing  upon  her  gentleness  of  soul, 
dupe  her  again  ?  Not  while  Tom  Barnett  lived ! 

"  Yet,"  said  Michael  Anstell,  "  what  man  has  done, 
man  can  do." 


354  THE  DAY  OF  FAITH 

"  What  do  you  mean?  "  demanded  Jane. 

"  I  mean  this,"  said  Michael  Anstell.  "  I  mean  that  I 
believe.  I  mean  that  we're  going  to  start  all  over  again, 
you,  and  I,  and  our  young  friend  here."  He  nodded 
toward  Barnett. 

"  Start  all  over  again?"  asked  Jane. 

"  With  every  dollar  that  I  have  in  the  world  behind 
you,"  said  Anstell  impressively. 

"Why?"  she  asked. 

"  Why?  Because,  Miss  Maynard,  I've  come  to  under- 
standing. I've  seen  what  the  world  could  be ;  I  know  what 
it  is  to-day.  I'm  going  to  put  it  back  where  it  was  yester- 
day." 

"  How  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  As  we  did  before ;  with  money  and  propaganda.  How 
else?  " 

She  shrugged.  "  Ah,  how  else?  But  do  you  think  that 
it  can  be  done  again  ?  " 

He  stared  at  her.  There  was  absolute  confidence  in  his 
voice  as  he  answered: 

"  Of  course  I  do.     Don't  you?  " 

She  shook  her  head. 

"  Then  you  don't  believe  that  your  neighbor  is  per- 
fect? "  demanded  Anstell. 

"  I  do,"  she  answered.  "  And  only  in  that  belief  can 
the  world  be  saved  from  self-destruction." 

"  Then  you'll  work  with  me,"  cried  Anstell.  "  We'll 
prove  that  what  the  world  has  had  the  world  can  have 
again." 

But  again  she  shook  her  head.  "  Not  you  and  I  to- 
gether, Mr.  Anstell.  You  in  your  way,  and  I  in  mine, 
perhaps " 

"  Why  not  together?  "  he  demanded. 

She  laughed,  the  weary  laugh  of  the  understanding  when 
it  tries  to  make  the  non-understanding  comprehend. 


THE  DAY  OF  FAITH  355 

"  Can  you  wait  twenty  centuries,  Michael  Anstell?  " 
she  asked. 

He  stared  at  her,  bewildered.  "  I  don't  know  what  you 
mean,"  he  told  her. 

"  Of  course  you  don't,"  she  said.  Into  her  voice  crept 
bitterness.  "  You,  who  have  destroyed  the  thing  that  took 
twenty  centuries  to  accomplish " 

"  Twenty  centuries !  We  did  it  in  a  few  months,"  he 
protested. 

"  We  did  it?    Whom  do  you  mean?"  she  cried. 

"  You  —  and  I,"  he  answered. 

Slowly  she  shook  her  head ;  before  that  gesture  Michael 
Anstell  felt  infinitely  ignorant,  infinitely  small. 

"  What  had  you  and  I  to  do  with  it  ?  "  she  demanded. 

"Well,"  he  gasped,  "wasn't  it  your  idea?  Didn't  I 
back  it  with  money  and  publicity  and " 

"  Money  ?  Publicity !  And  what  about  twenty  cen- 
turies of  teaching,  of  preparation?  Oh,  Michael  Anstell, 
you  have  been  not  only  wicked ;  you  have  been  ignorant." 

"  Ignorant?  "  he  gasped.  "  I  grant  that  I  was  wicked, 
and  that  I  was  ignorant  in  so  far  as  I  did  not  understand 
what  true  success  was,  but " 

"  Ignorant,"  she  repeated.  "  You  dare  to  think  that 
you  and  I  remade  the  world.  The  world  remade  itself, 
Michael  Anstell.  The  aspirations  of  more  than  nineteen 
hundred  years  brought  about  that  remaking.  The  hope, 
the  faith,  the  will  of  sixty  generations  remade  the  world. 
You  and  I  were  nothing  but  weak  instruments.  The  truth 
was  always  in  the  world,  in  the  great  teachings  of  the 
past,  for  the  world  to  recognize  when  it  chose.  Perhaps 
we  aided  in  the  recognition,  but  —  that  was  all.  For 
what  have  we  done  that  was  not  done  nineteen  hundred 
years  ago  ?  " 

"  Organization,"  he  said.  "  We  gave  the  Plan  that. 
We  will  do  it  again  and " 


356  THE  DAY  OF  FAITH 

"  And  damn  it  again,"  she  interrupted.  "  Oh,  Michael 
Anstell,  it  has  been  written  for  the  world  to  read,  that 
it  is  easier  for  a  camel  to  pass  through  the  eye  of  a 
needle  than  for  a  rich  man  to  enter  the  Kingdom  of 
Heaven.  What  do  you  think  that  means,  Michael 
Anstell?  " 

"  That  it  is  wrong  to  be  rich?  But  I  will  dedicate  all 
my  millions  to  the  cause;  I  will " 

"  You  must  first  seek  understanding,"  she  told  him. 
"  Wrong  to  be  rich?  Then  it  is  wrong  to  be  poor.  Do 
you  think  that  God  cares  about  motor-cars  or  their  lack? 
About  palaces  or  hovels?  It  is  the  heart  of  man  that 
He  judges.  I  will  tell  you,  Michael  Anstell,  what  that 
warning  means.  It  means  that  salvation  is  not  to  be 
purchased,  and  that  the  rich  man,  purchasing  the  things 
of  earth,  may  perhaps  think  it  easy  to  purchase  the  things 
of  Heaven,  and  they  are  not  for  sale. 

"  Oh,  you  are  not  the  only  one  who  has  done  wrong, 
Michael  Anstell.  When  I  listened  to  you,  I  knew  that  I 
listened  to  the  voice  of  evil."  She  turned  to  Barnett. 
"  You  knew  it,  too,  but  we  both  forgot  the  voice  that  we 
had  heard.  I  could  not  wait.  Yet  the  world  had  waited 
nineteen  hundred  years,  and  it  was  better,  though  I  did 
not  know  it  then,  that  it  wait  centuries  more  rather  than 
accept  a  bought  millennium. 

"  Michael  Anstell,  there  was  a  millennium  upon  us,  was 
there  not?  But  don't  you  suppose  that  there  have  been 
other  apparent  millenniums?  Don't  you  suppose  that 
faith  has  been  so  strongly  in  the  heart  of  mankind,  in  these 
past  nineteen  centuries,  that  millenniums  have  begun,  been 
destroyed  and  forgotten?  " 

"  Forgotten?     How  could  that  be?  "  he  asked. 

"  How  could  it  not  be?  Hasn't  the  world  to-day  for- 
gotten last  week?  It  if  had  not  forgotten,  could  it  have 
surrendered  the  thing  it  had  ?  Oh,  I  know  that  it  still  re- 


THE  DAY  OF  FAITH  357 

members  certain  things.  But  already  it  is  saying  that 
the  thing  failed  because  it  wasn't  practical.  It  failed, 
the  world  is  saying,  because  it  wasn't  humanly  possible  for 
man  to  love  his  neighbor  all  the  time.  Forgotten!  An- 
other generation  will  read  a  legend. 

"  Millenniums  begun,  destroyed,  forgotten !  Why, 
Michael  Anstell?  You  have  read  the  Bible.  Do  you  re- 
member when  Christ  entered  the  temple  and  scourged  the 
money-changers?  Was  it  because  they  were  rich,  do  you 
think?  Was  it  merely  because  they  trafficked  in  the 
shadow  of  the  altar?  Or  was  it  perhaps  because  they  not 
merely  carried  on  business  in  the  temple,  but  because  the 
temple  had  become  a  thing  of  business  itself?  Think  on 
that,  Michael  Anstell. 

"  And  when  you  have  thought,  ask  yourself  if  it  is 
not  possible  that  millenniums  have  begun,  been  destroyed 
and  forgotten?  Why,  with  the  truth  preached  from  a 
million  pulpits,  does  the  truth  not  prevail?  Is  it  because 
those  pulpits  no  longer  rely  on  the  truth  to  uphold  them, 
but  prefer  to  rely  on  organization? 

"Organized  truth !  Organized  love !  How  can  these 
things,  eternal  things,  be  subjected  to  the  puny  organiza- 
tion of  man?  Has  man  lost  the  sense  of  value  of  the 
difference  between  the  body  and  its  garments,  and  placed 
the  garments  first? 

"  I  let  you  buy  a  world's  salvation,  Michael  Anstell. 
Into  a  thing  which  should  be  kept  apart  from  things 
material,  I  let  the  most  material  thing  of  all  creep  in. 
Money ! 

"  Money  and  propaganda,  you  say.  You  think  that 
brought  about  the  twenty  days  of  Paradise  we  knew. 
Yet  there  has  been  money  and  organization  before  our 
time,  and  what  has  it  brought  the  world?  Wars,  famines, 
plagues  and  destruction. 

"  There  were  more  people  in  the  world  when  the  Great 


358  THE  DAY  OF  FAITH 

War  began  than  ever  in  its  history.  There  were  more 
churches.  Yet  the  Bloody  Years  came  and  took  their 
frightful  toll.  Did  money,  did  organization  prevent  that 
awful  tragedy?  Can  money,  can  organization  prevent 
other  similar  and  worse  tragedies? 

"  I  tell  you  that  they  cannot,  Michael  Anstell.  Man 
cannot  rely  on  the  things  which  he  himself  creates  to 
lift  him  from  the  depths.  Man  must  rely  on  that  which 
is  older  than  himself — the  law  of  truth,  that  law  which 
he  has  always  admitted  with  his  lips  and  denied  with 
his  deeds." 

"  But  the  world  accepted  that  law  on  the  Day  of 
Faith,"  cried  Michael  Anstell. 

"  Not  the  world,'*  she  answered.  "  A  billion  people 
accepted,  but  they  were  not  enough.  There  was  one  who 
did  not  accept ;  you,  Michael  Anstell.  I  do  not  condemn 
you.  For  the  fault  was  mine.  I  permitted  a  salvation 
to  be  purchased,  not  realizing  then,  as  I  do  now,  as  all  men 
must  know,  that  until  the  world  is  ready,  to  the  last  soul 
in  it,  salvation  cannot  come. 

"  You,  Michael  Anstell,  merely  proved  the  law :  that 
truth  must  be  accepted  by  every  one  before  the  world  can 
be  permanently  remade.  To  buy  salvation,  acceptance  of 
the  truth,  is  no  better  than  to  force  it  upon  people  at  the 
cannon's  mouth.  As  long  as  there  is  one  single  soul  in 
the  world  who  does  not  believe,  the  Millennium  is  not  here." 

"  But  now  I  do  believe,"  said  Anstell. 

"  And  a  billion  others  have  ceased  to  believe,"  she 
answered  sadly.  "  But  do  not  condemn  yourself  too 
greatly,  Michael  Anstell.  It  was  a  purchased  thing,  this 
universal  faith.  It  was  not  founded  on  the  rock  of  accept- 
ance of  the  truth.  Even  had  you  believed,  it  might  not 
have  endured.  For  we  did  it  with  money,  and  for  more 
than  nineteen  centuries  the  world  had  been  trying  with 
money  and  organization  to  remake  itself.  Plow  should 


THE  DAY  OF  FAITH  359 

we  have  endured  where  the  world  had  failed  so  many  times 
before?  And  yet  —  " 

"  How  can  I  know  that  ?  "  cried  Anstell.  "  The  world 
had  something.  How  can  I  know  that  it  would  not  have 
been  eternal?  Save  for  me?  " 

She  looked  at  him.     Sad  was  her  voice  as  she  answered : 

"  You  cannot  know,  Michael  Anstell." 

So  long  as  he  lived,  Michael  Anstell  would  remember 
these,  her  final  words  to  him.  The  world  had  had  some- 
thing, something  so  infinitely  precious  that  it  had  been 
beyond  comprehension,  even  when  it  was  visible  to  the 
physical  as  well  as  the  spiritual  eyes  of  man.  How  could 
Michael  Anstell  know  that  it  would  not  have  endured  for 
the  thousand  years  of  Christ's  reign  on  earth  that  has  been 
promised  mankind? 

Though  Jane  Maynard  believed  that  the  purchased 
thing  could  not  endure,  how  could  Anstell  know  that  she 
was  right?  Until  death  should  release  him  from  the 
world  which  he  had  wrecked,  should  remove  him  from  the 
contempt  of  mankind,  Michael  Anstell  would  wonder.  Not 
all  the  benefactions  which  he  might  make  to  charity ;  not 
all  the  penitence  he  might  feel;  nothing  would  save  him 
from  the  iteration  of  that  question.  It  would  ring  in  his 
ears  until  the  end  of  life.  Slowly  he  walked  back  to  that 
room  where  lay  his  son.  The  question  was  already  sound- 
ing in  his  ears. 

Alone  Jane  and  Tom  Barnett  looked  at  each  other. 
She  had  failed.  She  had  attempted  to  bring  into  the 
world  the  thing  which,  she  believed,  was  all  that  mankind 
needed  to  make  this  earth  a  Paradise.  It  had  come  for 
twenty  days,  then  gone. 

"  Do  you  think,"  said  Barnett,  "  that  you  were  entirely 
right  in  refusing  Anstell?  If  he  is  sincere  now,  per- 
haps   " 

She   shook  her  head.      "  The  world  was   ready  three 


360  THE  DAY  OF  FAITH 

weeks  ago.  It  had  been  through  the  most  terrific  tragedy 
of  the  ages.  But  to-day  —  Tom,  if  a  million  infants  were 
put  in  one  great  room,  tiny  infants  able  only  to  crawl, 
when  would  they  walk  ?  " 

"  When  they  were  able,"  he  replied. 

"  And  they  would  be  able,"  she  retorted,  "  when  the$ 
wanted  to  badly  enough." 

"  They  could  be  taught,"  he  objected. 

She  shook  her  head.  "  I  have  never  seen  one  taught. 
It  learns,  perhaps,  from  example,  but  it  cannot  be  hur- 
ried. It  is  written  down  before  its  birth  that  that  baby 
will  walk  upon  a  certain  day,  and  not  before.  And  that 
day  comes  when  its  desire  is  stronger  than  its  fear  of  the 
consequences  of  attempting  to  stand  upright. 

"  So  it  is  with  the  world,  with  all  of  us  children.  Like 
the  babies,  we  watch  others  jealously.  Some  of  us  are 
•emboldened  by  their  example  to  do  as  they  do.  Example 
and  precept.  That  is  all.  Force  and  purchase  —  never. 
Can  you  force  an  infant  to  walk  before  its  desires  have 
strengthened  its  limbs  ?  Can  you  buy  its  walking  ability  ? 
You  know  that  you  can't. 

"  Nor  can  we  buy  for  the  world  that  which  is  within 
its  grasp,  which  it  had  only  yesterday.  Until  the  world 
wants  it  so  badly  that  it  takes  it  —  until  every  last  soul 
in  the  world  holds  the  same  desire  —  not  until  then  will 
the  real  millennium  come.  Meantime  —  we  can  hope.  We 
can  hope  for  the  day  when  the  world  realizes  that  the 
millennium  it  had  yesterday  it  always  has,  within  its 
reach,  waiting  to  be  seized  and  rendered  to  the  uses  of 
mankind. 

"  We  can  preach  it,  Tom.  But  we  shall  not  buy  it,  for 
it  cannot  be  bought." 

Then,  suddenly,  a  silence  fell  upon  them,  a  silence  in 
which  no  speech  was  needed  to  convey  from  one  heart  to 
"the  other  the  thing  that  was  in  each.  She  went  to  his 


THE  DAY  OF  FAITH  361 

suddenly  opened  arms  as  unconsciously,  as  naturally,  as 
she  breathed.  A  moment,  gently,  with  a  great  tender- 
ness, he  held  her  close.  Then  her  head  went  back  and  her 
lips  went  up  to  his. 

Yet  even  as  they  kissed,  through  both  their  minds 
went  the  same  question.  Suppose  that  Michael  Anstell 
had  been  honest,  sincere?  Would  it  have  continued,  this 
millennium,  indefinitely?  The  question  would  not  torture 
them  as  it  would  Anstell.  But  it  would  puzzle  them 
always.  Would  it  have  lasted? 

But  neither  they,  nor  Michael  Anstell,  nor  any  one  else 
in  the  world  could  answer  that  question.  Only  all  the 

world  together  could  give  the  answer,  and  some  day 

For  neither  hope  nor  truth  are  ever  permanently  lost. 
They  are  somewhere,  biding  their  time.  If  a  man  can  love 
his  neighbor  for  one  minute,  why  cannot  he  do  so  for 
eternity  ? 


THE    END 


Popular  Copyrigkt  Novels 

AT  MODERATE  PRICES 

Ask  Your  Dealer  for  a  Complete  List  of 
A.  L.  Burt  Company's  Popular  Copyright  Fiction 

Adventures  of  Jimmie  Dale,  The.     By  Frank  L.   Packard. 

Adventures  of  Sherlock  Holmes.    By  A.  Conan  Doyle. 

Affinities,  and  Other  Stories.     By  Mary  Roberts  Rinehart. 

After  House,  The.    By  Mary  Roberts  Rinehart. 

Against  the  Winds.    By  Kate  Jordan. 

Ailsa  Paige.    By  Robert  W.  Chambers. 

Also  Ran.     By  Mrs.  Baillie  Reynolds. 

Amateur  Gentleman,  The*    By  Jeffery  Farnol. 

Anderson   Crow,   Detective.     By    George    Barr   MoCutcheon. 

Anna,  the  Adventuress.     By   E.   Phillips   Oppenheim. 

Anne's  House  of  Dreams.     By   L.   M.   Montgomery. 

Anybody  But  Anne.    By  Carolyn  Wells. 

Are  All  Men  Alike,  and  The  Lost  Titian.    By  Arthur  Stringer, 

Around  Old  Chester.    By  Margaret   Deland. 

Ashton-Kirk,  Criminologist.    By  John  T.  Mclntyre. 

Ashton-Kirk,    Investigator.    By    John    T.    Mclntyre. 

Ashton-Kirk,  Secret  Agent.     By  John  T.  Mclntyre. 

Ashton-Kirk,  Special  Detective.     By  John  T.  Mclntyre. 

Athalie.    By  Robert  W.  Chambers. 

At  the  Mercy  of  Tiberius.    By  Augusta  Evans  Wilson. 

Auction  Block,  The.     By  Rex  Beach. 

Aunt  Jane  of  Kentucky.    By  Eliza  C.  Hall. 

Awakening  of  Helena  Richie.    By  Margaret  Deland. 

Bab:  a  Sub-Deb.    By  Mary  Roberts  Rinehart. 

Bambi.    By  Marjorie  Benton  Cooke. 

Barbarians.    By  Robert  W.  Chambers'. 

Bar  20.     By  Clarence  E.  Mulford. 

Bar  20  Days.    By  Clarence  E.  Mulford. 

Barrier,  The.    By  Rex  Beach. 

Bars  of  Iron,  The.    By  Ethel  M.  Dell. 

Beasts  of  Tarzan,  The.    By  Edgar  Rice  Burroughs*, 

Beckoning  Roads.     By  Jeanne  Judson. 

Belonging.     By  Olive  Wadsley. 

Beloved  Traitor,  The.     By  Frank  L.  Packard. 

Beloved  Vagabond,  The.     By  Wm.  J.  Locke. 

Beltane  the  Smith.     By  Jeffery  Farnol. 

Betrayal,  The.    By  E.  Phillips  Oppenheim. 

Beulah.    (III.  Ed.)    By  Augusta  J.  Evans. 


Popular  Copyright  Novels 

AT  MODERATE  PRICES 

Ask  Your  Dealer  for  a  Complete  List  of 
A.  L.  Burt  Company's  Popular  Copyright  Fiction 

Beyond  the  Frontier.    By  Randall  Parrish. 

Big  Timber.    By  Bertrand  W.  Sinclair. 

Black  Bartlemy's  Treasure.     By  Jeffery  Farnol. 

Black  Is  White.    By  George  Barr  MdCutcheon. 

Blacksheep!    Blacksheep!.    By  Meredith  Nicholson. 

Blind  Man's  Eyes,  The.     By   Win,    Mac   Harg  and   Edwin 

Balmer. 

Boardwalk,  The.     By  Margaret  Widdemer. 
Bob  Hampton  of  Placer.    By  Randall  Parrish. 
Bob,  Son  of  Battle.    By  Alfred  Olivant. 
Box  With  Broken  Seals,  The.    By  E.  Phillips  Oppenheim. 
Boy  With  Wings,  The.    By  Berta  Ruck. 
Brandon  of  the  Engineers.    By  Harold  Bindloss. 
Bridge  of  Kisses,  The.    By  Berta  Ruck. 
Broad  Highway,  The.    By  Jeffery  Farnol.. 
Broadway  Bab.     By  Johnston  McCulley. 
Brown  Study,  The.     By  Grace  S.  Richmond. 
Bruce  of  the  Circle  A.     By  Harold  Titus. 
jBuccaneer  Farmer,  The.    By  Harold  Bindloss. 
Buck  Peters,  Ranchman).     By  Clarence  E.  Mulford. 
Builders,  The.    By  Ellen  Glasgow. 
Business  of  Life,  The.    By  Robert  W.  Chambers. 

Cab  of  the  Sleeping  Horse,  The.    By  John  Reed  Scott. 

Cabbage  and  Kings.    By  O.  Henry. 

Cabin  Fever.    By  B.  M.  Bower. 

Calling  of  Dan  Matthews,  The.    By  Harcld  Bell  Wrigfcfc 

Cape  Cod  Stories.     By  Joseph  C.  Lincoln. 

Cap'n  Abe,  Storekeeper.    By  James  A.  Cooper. 

Cap'n  Dan's  Daughter.    By  Joseph  C.  Lincoln. 

Cap'n  Erl.     By  Joseph  C.  Lincoln. 

Cap'n  Jonah's  Fortune.    By  James  A.  Cooper. 

Cap'n  Warren's  Wards.    By  Joseph  'C.  Lincoln. 

Chinese  Label,  The.    By  J.  Frank  Davis. 

Christine  of  the  Young  Heart.  Bv  Louise  Breintenbacfi  'Clancy. 

Cinderella  Jane.     By  Marjorie  B.  Cooke. 

Cinema  Murder,  The.    By  E.  Phillips  Oppenheim. 

City  of  Masks,  The.    By  George  Barr  McCutcheon. 

Cleek  of  Scotland  Yard.    By  T.  W.  Hanshew. 


Popular  Copyright  Novels 

AT  MODERATE  PRICES 

Ask  Your  Dealer  for  a  Complete  List  of 
A.  L.  Burt  Company's  Popular  Copyright  Fiction 

Cleek,  The  Man  of  Forty  Faces.    By  Thomas  W.  Hanshew. 

Cleek's  Government  Cases.     By  Thomas  W.  Hanshew. 

Clipped  Wings.    By  Rupert  Hughes. 

Clutch  of  Circumstance,  The.    By  Marjorie  Benton  Cooke. 

Coast  of  Adventure,  The.     By  Harold  Bindloss. 

Come-Back,  The.    By  Carolyn  Wells. 

Coming  of  Cassidy,  The.    By  Clarence  E.  Mulford. 

Coming  of  the  Law,  The.     By  Charles  A.  Seltzer. 

Comrades  of  Peril.     By  Randall  Parrish. 

Conquest  of  Canaan,  The.     By  Booth  Tarkington. 

Conspirators,  The.     By  Robert  W.  Chambers. 

Contraband.     By  Randall  Parrish. 

Cottage  of  Delight,  The.    By  Will  N.  Harben. 

Court  of  Inquiry,  A.    By  Grace  S.  Richmond. 

Cricket,  The.     By  Marjorie  Benton  Cooke. 

Crimson  Gardenia,  The,  and  Other  Tales  of  Adventure.    BjF 

Rex  Beach. 

Crimson  Tide,  The.    By  Robert  W.  Chambers. 
Cross  Currents.     By  Author  of  "Pollyanna." 
Cross  Pull,  The.     By  Hal.  G.  Evarts. 
Cry  in  the  Wilderness,  A.    By  Mary  E.  Waller. 
Cry  of  Youth,  A.     By  Cynthia  Lombardi. 
Cup  of  Fury,  The.    By  Rupeit  Hughes. 
Curious  Quest,  The.    By  E.  Phillips  Oppenheim, 

Danger  and  Other  Stories'.    By  A.  Conan  Doyle. 
Dark  Hollow,  The.    By  Anna  Katharine  Green. 
Dark  Star,  The.     By  Robert  W.  Chambers. 
Daughter  Pays,  The.     By  Mrs.  Baillie  Reynolds. 
'Day  of  Days,  The.    By  Louis  Joseph  Vance. 
Depot  Master,  The.     By  Joseph  C.  Lincoln. 
Destroying  Angel,  The.     By  Louis  Joseph  Vance. 
Devil's  Own,  The.    By  Randall  Parrish. 
Devil's  Paw,  The.    By  E.  Phillips  Oppenheim. 
Disturbing  Charm,  The.     By  Berta  Ruck. 
Door  of  Dread,  The.    By  Arthur  Stringer. 
Dope.    By  Sax  Rohmer. 

Double  Traitor,  The.    By  E.  Phillips  Oppenheim, 
Duds.    By  Henry  C.  Rowland. 


Popular  Copyright  Novels 

AT  MODERATE  PRICES 

•Ask  Your  Dealer  for  a  Complete  List  of 
A.  L.  Burt  Company's  Popular  Copyright  Fiction 

Empty  Pockets.    By  Rupert  Hughes. 
Erskine  Dale  Pioneer.    By  John  Fox,  Jr. 
Everyman's  Land.    By  C.  N.  &  A.  M.  Williamson. 
Extricating  Obadiah.    By  Joseph  C.  Lincoln. 
Eyes  of  the  Blind,  The.    By  Arthur  Somers  Roche. 
Eyes  of  the  World,  The.    By  Harold  Bell  Wright. 

Fairfax  and  His  Pride.    By  Marie  Van  Vorst. 

Felix  O'Day.    By  F.  Hopkinson  Smith. 

54-40  or  Fight.     By  Emerson  Hough. 

Fighting  Chance,  The.    By  Robert  W.  Chambers. 

Fighting  Fool,  The.    By  Dane  Coolidge. 

Fighting  Shepherdess,  The.    By  Caroline  Lockhart. 

Financier,  The.     By  Theodore  Dreiser. 

Find  the  Woman.    By  Arthur  Somers  Roche. 

First  Sir  Percy,  The.    By  The  Baroness  Orczy, 

Flame,  The.    By  Olive  Wadsley. 

For  Better,  for  Worse.    By  W.  B.  Maxwell. 

Forbidden  Trail,  The.    By  Honore  Willsie. 

Forfeit,  The.     By  Ridgwell  Cullum. 

Fortieth  Door,  The.    By  Mary  Hastings  Bradley* 

Four  Million,  The.    By  O.  Henry. 

From  Now  On.    By  Frank  L.  Packard. 

Fur  Bringers,  The.    By  Hulbert  Footner. 

Further  Adventures  of  Jimmie  Dale.    By  Frank  L.  Packard. 

Gel  Your  Man.    By  Ethel  and  James  Dorrance. 

Girl  in  the  Mirror,  The.    By  Elizabeth  Jordan. 

Girl  of  O.  K.  Valley,  The.    By  Robert  Watson. 

Girl  of  tiie  Blue  Ridge,  A.  By  Payne  Erskine. 

Girl  from  Keller's,  The.    By  Harold  Bindloss. 

Girl  Philippa,  The.    By  Robert  W.  Chambers. 

Girls  at  His  Billet,  The.    By  Berta  Ruck. 

Glory  Rides  the  Range.    By  Ethel  and  James  Borrance. 

Gloved  Hand,  The.    By  Burton  E.  Stevenson. 

God's  Country  and  the  Woman.    By  James  Oliver  Curwood. 

God's  Good  Man.    By  Marie  Corelli. 

Going  Some.    By  Rex  Beachi. 

Gold  Girl,  The.    By  James  B.  Hen'dryx. 

Golden  Scorpion,  The.    By  Sax  Rohmef. 


AT  MODERATE  PRICES 

Ask  Your  Dealer  for  a  Complete  List  of 
A.  L.  Burt  Company's  Popular  Copyright  Fiction 

Golden  Slipper,  The.    By  Anna  Katharine  Green. 

Golden  Woman,  The.    By  Ridgwell  Cullum. 

Good  References.    By  E.  J.  Rath. 

Gorgeous  Girl,  The.     By  Nalbro  Bartley. 

Gray  Angels,  The.     By  Nalbro  Bartley. 

Great  Impersonation,  The.    By  E.  Phillips  Oppenheim. 

Greater  Love  Hath  No  Man.    By  Frank  L.  Packard. 

Green  Eyes  of  Bast,  The.     By  Sax  Rohmer. 

Greyfriars  Bobby.     By  Eleanor  Atkinson. 

Gun  Brand,  The.    By  James  B.  Hendryx. 

Hand  of  Fu-Manchu,  The.    By  Sax  Rohmer. 

Happy  House.     By  Baroness  Von  Hutten. 

Harbor  Road,  The.     By  Sara  Ware  Bassett. 

Havoc.     By  E.  Phillips  Oppenheim. 

Heart  of  the  Desert,  The.    By  Honore  Willsie. 

Heart  of  the  Hills,  The.    By  John  Fox,  Jr. 

Heart  of  the  Sunset     By  Rex  Beach. 

Heart  of  Thunder  Mountain,  The.    By  Edfrid  A.  Bingham. 

Heart  of  Unaga,  The.    By  Ridgwell  Cullum. 

Hidden  Children,  The.     By  Robert  W.  Chambers. 

Hidden  Trails.    By  William  Patterson  White. 

Highflyers,  The.    By  Clarence  B.  Kelland. 

Hillman,  The.     By  E.  Phillips  Oppenheim. 

Hills  of  Refuge,  the.    By  Will  N.  Harben. 

His  Last  Bow.     By  A.  Conan  Doyle. 

His  Official  Fiancee.    By  Berta  Ruck. 

Honor  of  the  Big  Snows.    By  James  Oliver  Curwood. 

Hopalong  Cassidy.     By  Clarence  E.  Mulford. 

Hound  from  the  North,  The.     By  Ridgwell  Cullum. 

House  of  the  Whispering  Pines,  The.     By  Anna  Katharine 

Green. 

Hugh  Wynne,  Free  Quaker.     By  S.  Weir  Mitchell,  M.D. 
Humoresque.     By  Fannie  Hurst. 

I  Conquered.    By  Harold  Titus. 
Illustrious  Prince,  The.     By  E.  Phillips  Oppenheim. 
In  Another  Girl's  Shoes.     By  Berta  Ruck. 
Indifference  of  Juliet,  The.    By  Grace  S.  Richmond. 
Inez.    (111.  Ed.)     By  Augusta  J.  Evans. 


Popular  Copyright  Novels 

TAT  MODERATE  PRICES 

Ask  Your  Dealer  for  a  Complete  List  of 
A.  L.  Burt  Company's  Popular  Copyright  Fictiori 

Infelice.     By  Augusta  Evans  Wilson. 

Initials  Only.    By  Anna  Katharine  Green. 

Inner  Law,  The.    By  Will  N.  Harben. 

Innocent.     By  Marie  Corelli. 

In  Red  and  Gold.     By  Samuel  Merwin. 

Insidious  Dr.  Fu-Manchu,  The.    By  Sax  Rohmer. 

In  the  Brooding  Wild.    By  Ridgwell  Cullum. 

Intriguers,  The.     By  William  Le  Queux. 

Iron  Furrow,  The.    By  George  C.  Shedd. 

Iron  Trail,  The.    By  Rex  Beach. 

Iron  Woman,  The.    By  Margaret  Demand. 

IshmaeL   (111.)     By  Mrs.  Southworth. 

Island  of  Surprise.    By  Cyrus  Townsend  Brady, 

I  Spy.    By  Natalie  Sumner  Linclon. 

It  Pays  to  Smile.     By  Nina  Wilcox  Putnam. 

I've  Married  Marjorie.    By  Margaret  Widdemer. 

Jean  of  the  Lazy  A.    By  B.  M.  Bower. 

eanne  of  the  Marshes.    By  E.  Phillips  Oppenheinii 

ennie  Gerhardt.    By  Theodore  Dreiser. 

ohnny  Nelson.    By  Clarence  E.  Mulford. 
Judgment  House,  The.    By  Gilbert  Parker. 

Keeper  of  the  Door,  The.    By  Ethel  M.  Dell. 

Keith  of  the  Border.     By  Randall  Parrish. 

Kent  Knowles:  Quahaug.    By  Joseph  C.  Lincoln. 

Kingdom  of  the  Blind,  The.    By  E.  Phillips  Oppenheim, 

King  Spruce.    By  Holman  Day. 

Knave  of  Diamonds,  The.    By  Ethel  M.  Dell. 

La  Chance  Mine  Mystery,  The.    By  S.  Carleton. 
Lady  Doc,  The.    By  Caroline  Lockhart. 
Land-Girl's  Love  Story,  A.    By  Berta  Ruck. 
Land  of  Strong  Men,  The.    By  A.  M.  Chisholm. 
Last  Straw,  The.    By  Harold  Titus. 
Last  Trail,  The.    By  Zane  Grey. 
Laughing  Bill  Hyde.    By  Rex  Beach. 
Laughing  Girl,  The.    By  Robert  W.  Chambers. 
Law  Breakers,  The.     By  Ridg-well   Cullum. 
Law  of  the  Gun,  The.    By  Ridgwell  'Cullum. 


Popular  Copyright  Novels 

AT  MODERATE  PRICES 

Ask  Your  Dealer  for  a  Complete  List  of 
A.  L.  Burt  Company's  Popular  Copyright  Fiction 

League  of  the  Scarlet  Pimpernel.    By  Baroness  Orczy. 
Lifted  Veil,  The.     By  Basil  King. 
.Lighted  Way,  The.     By  E.  Phillips  Oppenheim. 
Lin  McLean.    By  Owen  Wister. 
•Little  Moment  of  Happiness,  The.    By  Clarence  Budington 

Kelland. 

Lion's  Mouse,  The.    By  C.  N.  &  A.  M.  Williamson. 
Lonesome  Land.    By  B.  M.  Bower. 
Lone  Wolf,  The.     By  Louis  Joseph  Vance. 
Lonely  Stronghold,  The.     By  Mrs.  Baillie  Reynolds. 
Long  Live  the  King.     By  Mary  Roberts  Rinehart. 
Lost  Ambassador.     By  E.  Phillips  Oppenheim. 
Lost  Prince,  The.     By  Frances  Hodgson  Burnett. 
Lydia  of  the  Pines.     By  Honore  Willsie. 
Lynch  Lawyers.     By  William  Patterson  White. 

Macaria.     (111.  Ed.)     By  Augusta  J.  Evans. 

Maid  of  the  Forest,  The.    By  Randall  Parrish. 

Maid  of  Mirabelle,  The.    By  Eliot  H.  Robinson. 

Maid  of  the  Whispering  Hills,  The.    By  Vingie  E.  Roe. 

Major,  The.    By  Ralph  Connor. 

Maker  of  History,  A.     By  E.  Phillips  Oppenheim. 

Malefactor,  The.     By  E.  Phillips  Oppenheim. 

Man  from  Bar  20,  The.     By  Clarence  E.  Mulford. 

Man  from  Bitter  Roots,  The.    By  Caroline  Lockhart. 

Man  from  Tall  Timber,  The.    By  Thomas  K.  Holmes. 

Man  in  the  Jury  Box,  The.    By  Robert  Orr  Chipperfield. 

Man-Killers,  The.     By  Dane  Coolidge. 

Man  Proposes.     By  Eliot  H.  Robinson,  author  of  "Smiles.'* 

Man  Trail,  The.     By  Henry  Oyen. 

Man  Who  Couldn't  Sleep,  The.     By  Arthur  Stringer. 

Marqueray's  Duel.    By  Anthony  Pryde. 

Mary  'Gusta.     By  Joseph  C.  Lincoln. 

Mary  Wollaston.    By  Henry  Kitchell  Webster. 

Mason  of  Bar  X  Ranch.    By  E.  Bennett. 

Master  Christian,  The.    By  Marie  Corelli. 

Master  Mummer,  The.    By  E.  Phillips  Oppenheim. 

Memoirs  of  Sherlock  Holmes.     By  A.  Conan  Doyle. 

Men  Who  Wrought,  The.     Bv  Ridgwell   Cullum. 

Midnight  of  the  Ranges.    By  George  Gilbert, 


Popular  Copyright  Novels 

AT  MODERATE  PRICES 

Ask  Your  Dealer  for  a  Complete  List  of 
A.  L.  Burt  Company's  Popular  Copyright  Fiction 

Mischief  Maker,  The.     By  E.  Phillips  Oppenheim. 

Missioner,  The.     By  E.  Phillips  Oppenheim. 

Miss  Million's  Maid.    By  Berta  Ruck. 

Money  Master,  The.     By  Gilbert  Parker. 

Money  Moon,  The.    By  Jeffery  Farnol. 

Moonlit  Way,  The.     By  Robert  W.  Chambers. 

More  Tish.     By  Mary  Roberts  Rinehart. 

Mountain  Girl,  The.     By  Payne  Erskine. 

Mr.  Bingle.     By  George  Barr  McCutcheon. 

Mr.  Grex  of  Monte  Carlo.    By  E.  Phillips  Oppenheim. 

Mr.  Pratt,     By  Joseph  C.  Lincoln. 

Mr.  Pratt's  Patients.    By  Joseph  C.  Lincoln. 

Mr.  Wu.    By  Louise  Jordan  Miln. 

Mrs.  Balfame.     By  Gertrude  Atherton. 

Mrs.  Red  Pepper.     By  Grace  S.  Richmond. 

My  Lady  of  the  North.     By  Randall  Parrish. 

My  Lady  of  the  South.     By  Randall  Parrish. 

Mystery  of  the  Hasty  Arrow,  The.    By  Anna  K.  Green. 

Mystery  of  the  Silver  Dagger,  The.    By  Randall  Parrish. 

Mystery  of  the  13th  Floor,  The.    By  Lee  Thayer. 

Nameless  Man,  The.     By  Natalie  Sumner  Lincoln. 

Ne'er-Do-Well,  The.     By  Rex  Beach. 

Net,  The.     By  Rex  Beach. 

New  Clarion.     By  Will  N.  Harben. 

Night  Horseman,  The.     By  Max  Brand. 

Night  Operator,  The.     By  Frank  L.  Packard. 

Night  Riders,  The.    By  Ridgwell  Cullum. 

North  of  the  Lavr.    By  Samuel  Alexander  White. 

One  Way  Trail,  The.    By  Ridgwell  Cullum. 

Outlaw,  The.     By  Jackson  Gregory. 

Owner  of  the  Lazy  D.    By  William  Patterson  White. 

Painted  Meadows.    By  Sophie  Kerr. 

Palmetto.     By  Stella  G.  S.  Perry. 

Paradise  Bend.     By  William  Patterson  White. 

Pardners.     By  Rex  Beach. 

Parrot  &  Co.     By  Harold  MacGrath. 

Partners  of  the  Night.    By  Leroy  Scott. 


Popular  Copyrignt  Novels 

AT  MODERATE  PRICES 

Ask  Your  Dealer  for  a  Complete  List  of 

A.  L.  Burt  Company's  Popular  Copyright  Fiction 

Partners  of  the  Tide.    By  Joseph  C.  Lincoln. 

Passionate  Pilgrim,  The,     By  Samuel  Merwin. 

Patricia  Brent,  Spinster.     Anonymous. 

Patrol  of  the  Sun  Dance  Trail,  The.    By  Ralph  Connor. 

Paul  Anthony,  Christian.     By  Hiram  W.  Hayes. 

Pawns  Count,  The.    By  E.  Phillips  Oppenheim. 

Peacemakers,  The.    By  Hiram  W.  Hayes. 

Peddler,  The.     By  Henry  C.  Rowland. 

People's  Man,  A.     By  E.  Phillips  Oppenheim. 

Peter  Ruff  and  the  Double  Four.    By  E.  Phillips  Oppenheim. 

Poor  Man's  Rock.     By  Bertrand  Sinclair. 

Poor  Wise  Man,  A.     By  Mary  Roberts  Rinehart. 

Portygee,  The.    By  Joseph  C.  Lincoln. 

Possession.     By  Olive  Wadsley. 

Postmaster,  The.    By  Joseph  C.  Lancom. 

Prairie  Flowers.     By  James  B.  Hendryx. 

Prairie  Mother,  The.     By  Arthur  Stringer. 

Prairie  Wife,  The.     By  Arthur  Stringer. 

Pretender,  The.    By  Robert  W.  Service. 

Price  of  the  Prairie,  The.    By  Margaret  Hill  McCarter. 

Prince  of  Sinners,  A.    By  E.  Phillips  Oppenheim. 

Promise,  The.    By  J.  B.  Hendryx. 

Quest  of  the  Sacred  Slipper,  The.    By  Sax  Rohmer. 

Rainbow's  End,  The.     By  Rex  Beach. 

Rainbow  Valley.    By  L.  M.  Montgomery. 

Ranch  at  the  Wolverime,  The.    By  B.  M.  Bower. 

Ranching  for  Sylvia.     By  Harold  Bindloss. 

Ransom.     By  Arthur  Somers  Roche. 

Real  Life.     By  Henry  Kitchell  Webster. 

Reclaimers,  The.    By  Margaret  Hill  McCarter. 

Re-Creation  of  Brian  Kent,  The.    By  Harold  Bell  Wright, 

Red  and  Black.    By  Grace  S.  Richmond. 

Red  Mist,  The.    By  Randall  Parrish. 

Pitd  Pepper  Burns.     By  Grace  S.  Richmond. 

Red  Pepper's  Patients.    By  Grace  S.  Richmond. 

Red  Seat  The.     By  Natalie  Sumner  Lincoln. 

Rejuvenation  of  Aunt  Mary,  The.    By  Anne  Warner. 

Restless  Sex,  The.    By  Robert  W.  Chambers. 


Popular  Copyright  Novels 

AT  MODERATE  PRICES 

Ask  Your  Dealer  for  a  Complete  List  of 
A.  L.  Burt  Company's  Popular  Copyright  Fiction 

Return  of  Dr.  Fu-Manchu,  The.     By  Sax  Rohmer. 

Return  of  Tarzan,  The.     By  Edgar  Rice  Burroughs. 

Riddle  of  the  Frozen   Flame,  The.     By   M.   E.  and  T.  W. 

Hanshew. 

Riddle  of  Night,  The.    By  Thomas  W.  Hanshew. 
Riddle  of  the  Purple  Emperor,  The.     By  T.  W.  and  M.  E. 

Hanshew. 

Rider  of  the  King  Log,  The.    By  Holman  Day. 
Rim  of  the  Desert,  The.    By  Ada  Woodruff  Anderson. 
Rise  of  Roscoe  Paine,  The.    By  Joseph  C.  Lincoln. 
Rising  Tide,  The.     By  Margaret  Deland. 
Rocks  of  Valpre,  The.    By  Ethel  M.  Dell. 
Room  Number  3.     By  Anna  Katharine  Green. 
Rose  in  the  Ring,  The.    By  George  Barr  McCutcheon. 
Round  the  Corner  in  Gay  Street.    By  Grace  S.  Richmond. 

St.  Elmo.     (111.  Ed.)    By  Augusta  J.  Evans. 

Second  Choice.     By  Will  N.  Harben. 

Second  Latchkey,  The.     By  C.  N.  &  A.  M.  Williamson. 

Second  Violin,  The.     By  Grace  S.  Richmond. 

Secret  of  the  Reef,  The.     Harold  Bindloss. 

Secret  of  Sarek,  The.     By  Maurice  Leblanc. 

See-Saw,  The.     By  Sophie  Kerr. 

Self-Raised.     (111.)     By  Mrs.  Southworth. 

Shavings.     By  Joseph  C.  Lincoln. 

Sheik,  The.    By  E.  M.  Hull. 

Shepherd  of  the  Hills,  The.    By  Harold  Bell  Wright. 

Sheriff  of  Dyke  Hole,  The.     By  Ridgwell  Cullum. 

Sheriff  of  Silver  Bow,  The.    By  Berton  Braley. 

Sherry.     By  George  Barr  McCutcheon. 

Side  of  the  Angels,  The.     By  Basil  King. 

Sight  Unseen  and  The  Confession.    By  Mary  Robert  Rinehart. 

Silver  Horde,  The.    By  Rex  Beach. 

Sin  That  Was  His,  The.    By  Frank  L.  Packard. 

Sixty-first  Second,  The.     By  Owen  Johnson. 

Slayer  of  Souls,  The.    By  Robert  W.  Chambers 

Son  of  His  Father,  The.    By  Rid.srwell  Cullum. 

Son  of  Tarzan,  The.     By  Edgar  Rice  Burroughs. 

Speckled  Bird.  A.     By  Augusta  Evans  Wilson. 

Spirit  of  the  Border,  The.     (New  Edition.)     By  Zane  Grey. 


Popular  Copyright  Novels 

AT  MODERATE  PRICES 

Ask  Your  Dealer  for  a  Complete  List  of 
A.  L.  Burt  Company's  Popular  Copyright  Fiction 

Spoilers,  The.     By  Rex  Beach. 

Steele  of  the  Royal  Mounted.    By  James  Oliver  Curwood. 

Still  Jim.     By  Honore  Willsie. 

Story  of  Foss  River  Ranch,  The.    By  Ridgwell  Cullum. 

Story  of  Marco,  The.     By  Eleanor  H.  Porter. 

Strange  Case  of  Cavendish,  The.    By  Randall  Parrish. 

Strawberry  Acres.    By  Grace  S.  Richmond. 

Sudden  Jim.    By  Clarence  B.  Kelland. 

Sweethearts  Unmet.    By  Berta  Ruck. 

Tales  of  Secret  Egypt.     By  Sax  Rohmer. 

Tales  of  Sherlock  Holmes.     By  A.  Conan  Doyle. 

Talitha  Cumi.    By  Annie  J.  Holland. 

Taming  of  Zenas  Henry,  The.    By  Sara  Ware  Bassett 

Tarzan  of  the  Apes.    By  Edgar  Rice  Burroughs. 

Tarzan  and  the  Jewels  of  Opar.     By  Edgar  Rice  Burroughs. 

Tempting  of  Tavernake,  The.    By  E.  Phillips  Oppenheim. 

Tess  of  the  D'Urbervilles.     By  Thomas  Hardy. 

Texan,  The.    By  James  B.  Hendryx. 

Thankful's  Inheritance.    By  Joseph  C.  Lincoln. 

That  Affair  Next  Door.    By  Anna  Katharine  Green. 

That  Printer  of  Udell's.     By  Harold  Bell  Wright. 

Their  Yesterdays.     By  Harold  Bell  Wright. 

Thieves'  Wit.     By  Hulbert  Footner. 

Thirteenth  Commandment,  Thev     By  Rupert  Hughes. 

Three  Eyes,  The.    By  Maurice  Leblanc. 

Three  of  Hearts,  The.    By  Berta  Ruck. 

Three  Strings,  The.     By  Natalie  Sumner  Lincoln. 

Tiger's  Coat,  The.     By  Elizabeth  Dejeans. 

Tish.     By  Mary  Roberts  Rinehart. 

Tobias  O'  the  Light.     By  James  A.  Cooper. 

Trail  of  the  Axe,  The.    By  Ridgwell  Cullum. 

Trail  to  Yesterday,  The.    By  Charles  A.  Seltzer. 

Trailin'.     By  Max  Brand. 

Trap,  The.     By  Maximilian  Foster. 

Treasure  of  Heaven,  The.    By  Marie  Corelli. 

Triple  Mystery,  The.     By  Adele  Luehrmann. 

Triumph,  The.    By  Will  N.  Harben. 

Triumph  of  John  Kars,  The.     By  Ridgwell  Cullum, 

T.  Tembaronx    By  Frances  Hodgson  Burnett. 


Popular  Copyrignt  Novels 

AT  MODERATE  PRICES 

Ask  Your  Dealer  for  a  Complete  List  of 

A.  L.  Burt  Company's  Popular  Copyright  Fiction 


Turn  of  the  Tide.     By  Author  of  "Pollyanna." 
Turnstile  of  Night,  The.     By  William  Allison. 
Twenty-fourth  of  June,  The.     By  Grace  S.  Richmond. 
Twins  of  Suffering  Creek,  Th».     By  Ridgwell  Cullum. 
Two-Gun  Man,  The.     By  Charles  A.  Seltzer. 

Under  Handicap.     By  Jackson  Gregory. 

Under  the  Country  Sky.     By  Grace  S.  Richmond. 

Underwood  Mystery,  The.     By  Charles  J.  Dutton. 

Uneasy  Street.    By  Arthur  Somers  Roche. 

Unpardonable  Sin,  The.     Major  Rupert  Hughes. 

Untamed,  The.    By  Max  Brand. 

Up  from  Slavery.    By  Booker  T.  Washington. 

Valiants  of  Virginia,  The.    By  Hallie  Ermine  Rives. 
Valley  of  Fear,  The.    By  Sir  A.  Conan  Doyle. 
Valley  of  the  Sun,  The.    By  William  M.  McCoy. 
Vanguards  of  the  Plains.    By  Margaret  Hill  McCarter. 
Vanished  Mesenger,  The.     By  E.  Phillips  Oppenheim. 
Vashti.    By  Augusta  Evans  Wilson. 
Virtuous  Wives.    By  Owen  Johnson. 
Voice  of  the  Pack,  The.    By  Edson  Marshall. 

Waif-o'-the-Sea.     By  Cyrus  Townsend  Brady. 

Wall  Between,  The.    By  Sara  Ware  Bassett. 

Wall  of  Men,  A.     By  Margaret  H.  McCarter. 

Watchers  of  the  Plains,  The  By  Ridgwell  Cullum. 

Way  Home,  The.    By  Basil  King. 

Way  of  an  Eagle,  The.     By  E.  M.  Dell. 

Way  of  the  Strong,  The.     By  Ridgwell  Cullum. 

Way  of  These  Women,  The.    By  E.  Phillips  Oppenheim. 

We  Can't  Have  Everything.    By  Major  Rupert  Hughes. 

Weavers,  The.    By  Gilbert  Parker. 

West  Wind  Drift.     By  George  Barr  McCutcheon. 

When  a  Man's  a  Man.     By  Harold  Bell  Wright. 

Where  the  Trail  Divides.     By  Will  Lillibridge. 

Where  There's  a  Will.    By  Mary  R.  Rinehart. 

White  Moll.  The.     By  Frank  L.  Packard. 

Who  Goes  There?    By  Robert  W.  Chambers. 

Why  Not.    By  Margaret  Widdemer. 


Popular  Copyright  Novels 

AT  MODERATE  PRICES 

Ask  Your  Dealer  for  a  Complete  List  of 

A.  L.  Burt  Company's  Popular  Copyright  Fiction 


Window  at  the  White  Cat,  The.    By  Mary  Roberts  Rinehart. 
Winds  of  Chance,  The.    By  Rex  Beach. 

Wine  of  Life,  The.     By  Arthur  Stringer. 
Wings  of  Youth,  The.     By  Elizabeth  Jordan. 
Winning  of  Barbara  Worth,  The.     By  Harold  Bell  Wright. 
Winning  the  Wilderness.    By  Margaret  Hill  McCarter. 
Wire  Devils,  The.    By  Frank  L.  Packard. 
Wishing  Ring  Man,  The.    By  Margaret  Widdemer. 
With  Juliet  in  England.     By  Grace  S.  Richmond. 
Woman  From  "Outside,"  The.    By  Hulbert  Footner. 
Woman  Gives,  The.     By  Owen  Johnson. 
Woman  Haters,  The.     By  Joseph  C.  Lincoln. 
Woman  Thou  Gavest  Me,  The.  By  Hall  Caine. 
Woodcarver  of  'Lympus,  The.     By  Mary  E.  Waller. 
Wooing  of  Rosamond  Fayre,  The.    By  Berta  Ruck. 
World  for  Sale,  The.   By  Gilbert  Parker. 

Wreckers,  The.     By  Francis  Lynde. 

Wyndham's  PaL     By  Harold  Bindloss. 

Years  for  Rachel,  The.    Bv  Berta  Ruck. 

Yellow  Claw,  The.    By  Sax  Rohmer. 

You  Never  Know  Your  Luck.    By  Gilbert  Parker. 

You're  Only  Young  Once.     By  Margaret  Widdemer. 

Youth  Challenges.     By  Clarence  Budington  Kelland. 

Zeppelin's  Passenger.    By  E.  Phillips  Oppenheim. 


A     000124022     5 


